The Reaper's Only Daughter
by L. Nevada
Summary: In accordance with her father's dying wish, Schuyler (the only female patch) returns to Edward's (original nine member) home chapter in Charming, CA. Follow Schuyler's life-long journey as she tries to honor her father's memory, forge her own path in a male dominated society, and craft extraordinary relationships just as this makeshift family slowly unravels at the seams.
1. Prologue: Laying the Foundation

Author's notes: Be aware of tags, trigger warnings, and the like. Know that while this is a family crime drama and most importantly follows the perameters of the original show, this is also a romance and technically an AU. Many adult themes will be addressed including but not limited to: sex, drugs, and extreme use of profanty and violence. Also, the main romance in this story will be centered around a polyamorous relationship between my OC, Chibs Telford, and Tig Trager. I will do my best to acknowledge the more mature themes and trigger warnings at the top of each chapter, but please recall the origins that this novel is based around. This is still an outlaw biker gang and we are still operating in Charming folks. These characters are in character.

Background: As suggested by the title and synopsis I have created a female OC who is a fully integrated and viable patch member. This is also my first work for this fandom that I love! This story will serve as my first real attempt at a proper WIP and novel length work. (If you've seen my work before, I really mean it this time! Promise! Just hang with me once more!)

I know that there are real world scenarios as well as canonical reasons why females cannot join a majority of criminal syndicates however, I am writing an AU and a question has been nagging me for about nine months: What if a woman was a patched member? Schuyler was born and has been living with me ever since.

This story follows closely with the original series. I have written a prologue in past tense to integrate readers into this world, establish what the SOA looks like with Schuyler's father, Edward, being an original nine member, and to introduce Schuyler as her own character. The first chapter picks up in present tense three days before the pilot episode when the gun factory blows up (ah, remember season 1? Let's go back and pretend all this mess never happened, shall we? Once more from the top!).

Many scenes and some dialogue will feel familiar. Equally, some will be brand new. Timelines or plotlines may move or change to better fit the story I am telling. You may know what is happening, but information may be told differently and to different characters than how it was presented in canon. And I may introduce some original plot lines throughout just to keep things especially interesting. Similarly some characters may be deleted or replaced with OCs (ex. we will meet SAMTEX in the second half) however, a majoirty of the canon cast is present. And some character traits or relationships may be exaggerated or changed (ex. the main romance between Chibs and Tig, which starts as a secret!). I am expounding on characters from the show who perhaps had a little less screen time than others to fully develop their characters and help to tell the story from their perspective. This is not Jackson's story. This is Schuyler's story. Secondly, this is an ensemble story. Also know that most of the canon character deaths will still occur though they may occur differently or in different times than they did in the tv show. The question is not who, but when and why?

The chapters I have put together thus far have been rather long. In fact, they read much like an episode is presented. The trick is to keep them from being too long, but you let me worry about that! Because I am working with so much material at once it will be some time between each chapter. I say this to be transparent. I will release the Prologue and chapters 1 & 2 together. Then I will post a chapter each month on the first for as long as I can starting on the first of May. I will try to communicate changes to schedules as clearly as I can as they come up.

As it stands, this story is a work in progress and listed as incomplete. As far as tags and triggers are concerned, I will post at the top of the first chapter where a sex scene appears as well as the first chapter where any major triggers occur. Then it can reappear at any time throughout (recall the original series). But know this will be a long and arduous process. With luck, this story will be as long and complex as the original (I'm hoping for more than 300k words!), but I am getting ahead of myself.

I was hoping to have more of a back log before I started posting chapters. However, I have been living with this character and story for far too long and am super excited to share my progress thus far! I think it best to make sure there is a market for my WIP before I start thinking seriously about 300k words.

With all this being said, I'm super excited to share my new world! We are going to start simple with a prologue. Then the first official chapter will transition into present tense and we will be off and running!

Thank you if you clicked on my story. Thank you if you read any of my rambling establishments of this story. And thank you if you decide to give my story a chance. I hope you get something out of it!

Without further ado, Enjoy the story...

Meredith Rose Schuyler was born in the small town of Valor, TX with a population of no more than 5,000 individuals precisely one-hour north of the Mexican-American border and two hours south of the border between Texas and New Mexico. She was born October 25, 1980 to Edward and Samantha Schuyler at precisely Midnight on a stormy Friday morning. As of the start of her story in 2008 she is 28 years old.

At 5'8" Schuyler is an attractive woman with full shoulder length blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and naturally long eyelashes. She has wide hips, large thighs, and an impressively ample chest, but a firm and even abdomen that accentuates her already curvy figure. Her skin is mostly a pristine white except for three or four visible stretch marks on either side of her chest. At the beginning of the story she has two tattoos: a large black, white, and gray piece of artwork covering her entire left leg from knee to ankle depicting two large and two small Chrysanthemum flowers woven together with vines. Each flower as well as the background were meticulously shaded to give the piece a realistic appearance. The second is a teapot pouring hot tea into a tea cup hovering just above her inner right ankle which she is just as proud of.

She received most of her physical features from her mother as well as her mother's warm laugh and desire to learn. However, there is no doubt that when Schuyler smiles, she is her father's child. She also inherited his love for world traveling, his singsong voice, and exquisite taste in music.

Schuyler was born the only child of Edward "The Midnight Sky" Schuyler when he was 39 years of age. He met Schuyler's mother Samantha at the age of 20 when she was 18 in Texas during his days in the army. Though Edward traveled during much of his time in the armed forces and was deployed during the Vietnam War he often found ways to visit Samantha during his leaves. When he was discharged at the age of 26 he returned home to California with nine men from his Platoon including his best friends John Teller and Piermont Winston. Together, with nothing left for them after the war, the group organized a club of sorts that would serve to give each of the members an excuse to meet regularly and remain in touch. This group was an unofficial and dispersed motorcycle club that formed in 1967 called the Sons of Anarchy: Redwood. Very little came out of this group other than monthly rides and regular camping trips resulting in opportunities to relive the "good ol' days" for the first few months of the club's existence. However, things changed when John's wife Gemma became pregnant and the group decided to settle down in her home town of Charming, California. The expectations that came with the expected arrival of a baby did two things to the club: divide it and expand it.

John, who had been made the unofficial "President", knew that he would be unable to keep a house and provide for his new family on the salary of a lone mechanic. He knew he had to do more; he had to invest. He partnered with Clayton Morrow, the youngest of the First Nine, and purchased a plot of land with an auto shop that stood as its main attraction. Not long after, he began to lay the plans for a private owned bar to be built on the same property which would eventually hold all club meetings. With the introduction of a business to provide jobs for members the club became less about motorcycles and more about community. Teller-Morrow as the establishment was named became one of the most profitable and beloved family owned businesses in Charming. The club was secure and prosperous for a time. Those in association with the members found companionship and those who wore the club vest formed a brotherhood that many carried with them from the army and extended to those who later joined.

Everyone that is, except for Edward. He poured his life into the formation of the club, but his heart had been with Samantha since he was 20 years old. Samantha's home and family were in Texas and she would never leave. The annual drives Edward would take to visit her became harder to wait for and his visits lasted longer each time. Eventually he would make the decision not to return at all.

While John and his wife's baby brought prosperity to the club as a whole, his arrival made Edward realize that he had been neglecting his own desires by remaining apart from his wife-to-be. In 1973, Edward said goodbye to his life and family in Charming and moved to Texas to be with Samantha. This move was sanctioned at a cost. Edward was entrusted to create and run the first branching charter of the SOA club in Texas. This would mean that the club operated in two separate states and business would have to grow to meet the demand and keep up the traditions of brotherhood and community that had quickly been instilled in those effected by its presence. Edward pulled all his resources and was able to open his own shop in Valor, Texas where he resided as the sole owner. With the help of Ethan Dyer, a patch brother who would reside as the Texas charter's first Vice President, he was able to set up a functioning clubhouse to hold meetings within a month of his transition. It was decided that the smallest a settled charter could be was 5 men, so Edward and Ethan recruited three more (locals that Samantha could vouch for) in just two weeks time and tentatively patched them in with success. The charter continued to grow from there.

With the near immediate success of the Texas charter, Sons of Anarchy would continue to expand rapidly for the next thirty years. Charters sprung up from the border of Canada to small towns across Europe and one even appeared in Australia. The club at its largest size combining all charters rounded out to 568 at one point in 1998 and has since continued to fluctuate. The Texas charter under Edward Schuyler is widely considered to be one of the most successful in the club's history due to its equal parts' ideal location and strong /  
Each charter is under democratic rule headed by a counsel: A President, Vice President, Sergeant Arms, and Secretary. Those leading are free to make their own rules and decide the best way for their members to produce a sustainable profit. Many have chosen to work out of auto shops as the "Mother charter" had while others owned escort businesses, bars, gas stations, or even convenient stores. However, all charters looked to the original Mother charter, since renamed the Sons of Anarchy: Redwood Original for guidance. It was originally Vice President Clay Morrow's idea, with support from several other members throughout the charters, to introduce the club to the business of gun running in 1975. By 1979, this trade became the primary denominator of all charters and the SOA was a widely recognized as an outlaw gang in over ten states and seven countries, but this did not slow its progression.

Guns were supplied from a branch charter in Belfast, Ireland and arrived in California to be spread from charter to charter throughout western America. Product that wasn't sold to organizations within the states left the country through Edward's charter across the Mexican border. Each branch of the club faces its own obstacles when earning a sustainable living, but Valor obtains most of its money by making monthly runs bypassing Border Control and entering Mexico. Valor was chosen as the town to settle in due to its small population with an equally small police department where the force was more than willing to cooperate with the club. Being so close to the border, at an entrance with significantly less border control than anywhere else, and equally as close to New Mexico, SAMTEX was an ideal location. The charter found plentiful wealth with few years of unprofitable business. However, the promise of success and riches comes at a price. Namely the constant looming gaze of Border Control and similar federal agents watching over the club's every move and the constant threat of confrontation with notorious Hispanics including the Mexican the Cartel. These factors led Edward and Samantha to wait several years after the club was developed and for their finances to become secure before they ever tried to conceive a child.

The gender of the highly anticipated baby was kept a secret from all including the patiently awaiting parents until the night of the child's birth. A nurse fresh out of college placed a healthy new born baby girl into Edward's arms at 12:07 am and his first instinct was to cry out of a pure joy that he had never previously experienced. His second was to pass the infant to her mother and call his friends that resided in California. John didn't answer on the first attempt, so Edward called Piermont. Piermont answered immediately and the two talked for hours. Edward received nothing but joy and praise from his companion, if not some friendly chiding for having taken so long to have his first child. John returned Edward's call in the early morning hours and his first question to his best friend was not "ten fingers and ten toes", but rather, "is it a boy"?

The answer being 'no' brought about a different sort of conversation to the one Edward had with Piermont. While congratulations were in order for the first-born child of SAMTEX John was overly concerned with the future of the charter entrusted to maintain the border and questioned his close friend about when he and his wife would be trying again to produce a male heir to the Presidential seat.

This conversation didn't spring from a malicious place but rather from one of genuine concern. Due to the fact that the SOA club has a list of unspoken bylaws that must be followed by all charters, such as the fairly prominent one stating that all patched members are male, Edward's first born would not be eligible to join. While any ranking official including the President can be replaced and the position held by anyone a charter sees fit at any time, SAMTEX had only known one president and due to its success, it would be ideal if its successor was of the same bloodline.

Edward, having known this to be the case, was still infuriated by the thought of his first born being ineligible to wear his club's 'kutte' or bare its ink. Edward attempted to reason with the MC's creator, who he was obligated to adhere to, over the course of several days to seemingly no avail. Piermont argued for Edward that any legitimate child of a First Nine member had more right to be patched in than any other relative or outsider regardless of sex because they were of direct family lineage. John, exhausted with arguing during a time that should have been a joyous occasion finally settled on an agreement with his fellow President down south.

Edward had 18 years to groom his daughter for the club. She would have the opportunity to 'prospect' like any man who wished to join. After a year of observation, SAMTEX could decide if the child was fit to bare the Reaper or be cast out. Until her fate was decided no member outside of SAMTEX would know the name, gender, or whereabouts of the SAMTEX child. The secret was kept between the three friends and one would even take it to his grave before the secret was ever brought to light.

Edward and Samantha knew the risks of keeping the secret from other charters. They independently decided that they would never bare another child before coming to that very decision together. Instead they focused their combined love into raising their beautiful daughter Meredith. They spent her entire adolescence making sure she was exposed to two ways of life: the civilian side where she went to school and was well educated with a few friends and a promising future in any career she chose. And the gangland side where her family and closest friends resided. Few in the club were educated, but with the combined force of twenty club members, eight adoring wives, and five children who grew up alongside Meredith she became well versed in interacting with an assortment of individuals from different backgrounds and learned many trades to concur the world she was born into.

Meredith was 10 when she first asked her father what a cigarette was. Nearly every adult in his daughter's life smoked cigarettes and almost as many smoked marijuana. At such a young age Edward already knew that he would be unable to prevent his beautiful daughter from taking up such an unhealthy habit. Being the responsible father, Edward politely explained what they were and told his daughter that she would never be allowed to smoke them. Then he smiled as he watched his daughter laugh in his face and run out the front door to play in the yard with her friends confident they had recently asked their father's the very same question. She began smoking cigarettes at the age of 16 around the time her friends began to steal them from their parents' bedrooms or gas stations. She wouldn't smoke around her parents or members of the MC until she was a patched member herself at age 18. However, all the adults knew that she was just as guilty of the habit as the rest of her friends.

At 12 she began voicing the thought of wanting tattoos. It came as no surprise considering both of her parents bore some and nearly every member in the club had at least one symbol representing Sons of Anarchy on some part of their body along with their own tattoos. By 14 most of the boys were learning how to shoot guns and she had seen a few begin to ride on the back of their father's motorcycles with the intent of learning how to balance for themselves. At this point Schuyler didn't know that she was being carefully observed by her parents for what she took an interest in and what things she ignored. All she knew is that she wanted to hang out with her friends in the shooting range and go on bike rides with her dad. Edward smiled fondly and agreed under a set of conditions: she continued to make A's in school, and she learn a skill that her friends were not interested in learning. That year she learned how to shoot a hand gun and became proficient by the age of 19. She also took up the skill of throwing knives which took her several additional years to master. Her friends have always been very jealous of her knife collection.

At age 15 Meredith became Schuyler. The name allowed her to better fit in with the rambunctious boys she grew up with and don her father's name with pride. The name along with the nickname of "Sky" fit her well because she was often found outside playing in gardens or on hot asphalt chasing after boys who sometimes slowed down to stay with her and sometimes made her keep up. This made her fast and build endurance at a young age. Wrestling was a popular event in the group who took after their father's who were often seen throwing fists to settle disputes. Schuyler learned how to throw a punch and receive one in return. This was also the year when Schuyler began to ask for her own motorcycle. She was jealous that her best friend Jesse Dyer (born a week before her and son to the Vice President) received his own before any of the other boys in their friend group. Unknown to her the parents of both children regularly discussed when they should introduce things to their children before either was exposed. She received her first bike on the following week; a fixer-upper that she repaired with her father. She was 16 and old enough to drive it on her own when the project was complete.

At age 16, with the help of her mother who is a fluid Spanish speaker and Hispanic members of the club, she became fluent in reading and speaking Spanish. This was also the year her friends began to talk excitedly about the year to come when they could begin their prospecting year to enter the motorcycle club themselves. One must be 17 to begin prospecting and no one under the age of 18 can be sworn into the club. This was about the time Schuyler began to realize that she had in fact been being prepared for the day when she could start her prospecting year and the club would soon be judging her every move…if they hadn't already been doing so. She was observant enough to realize that there was one major difference between herself and the other children she would potentially be prospecting with. While the boys she grew up with didn't seem to notice this daunting difference their father's, while they had helped to raise Schuyler and loved her dearly, certainly did.

At 17 she began prospecting with the group of boys she was raised with. Each child belonged to a member who was already "patched", and their fathers took it upon themselves to sponsor, or shadow, their children during their prospecting year. The prospecting year is a period of time in which 'prospects' ride alongside members of the club, follow them on jobs including some across the Mexican-American border, and learn the meaning of being in such a well-established organization. During her prospecting year Schuyler proved herself a valuable translator and persuasive during negotiations with other organizations. She was attentive, even-tempered, and eager to learn from the patches she rode with. She never once showed that she was intimidated when in the middle of a group of men or shied away from a situation when things turned violent. Rather she put herself in the center of the chaos. If she was ever unsuccessful in deescalating a situation, she drew her gun and made sure every member with her returned home in one piece. It wasn't long before Edward started to look to Schuyler before making decisions just as much as he looked to his V.P and SA. Sometimes he asked for her opinion before seeking out others. Near the end of her prospecting year all it took was one look to her father for them to communicate and come to a decision between the two of them before they acted on it without doubt.

Schuyler turned 18 and watched all 5 of her friends get patched into the club. One right after the other. Schuyler knew not to press her father on the subject because the decision required careful deliberation and the results would be life as well as club wide altering. In November of 1998, Meredith Rose Schuyler became the first woman to ever be patched into the SOA motorcycle club with a unanimous vote. This was the same month she would be accepted into her dream school. Semesters were spent in a dorm room blaring loud rock music to block out the neighbors who spent their time partying. Summers and holidays were spent on the back of a motorcycle flying down the highway at nearly twice the posted speed limit. A gun on her hip and a set of throwing knives strapped securely to her right leg Schuyler counted down the hours to each weekend she could travel home. She never felt more sure of herself than when she was on the road with her family doing the one thing they knew how to do. Earn. It was on one of these weekends, when a class that Schuyler particularly despised was cancelled, that she would return home early and receive the news that would change her world forever.

In 2006, Edward Schuyler was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Schuyler's immediate reaction was to drop all her educational responsibilities and move back home to spend time with her father and take over responsibilities of the club. Edward forbade her from returning home until she graduated with her degree as she had set out to do. Furious, though unwilling to disappoint her father, Schuyler remained at the school until she graduated with her Doctor of Veterinary Medicine (DVM) 6 months later. Instead of entering the work force when she earned her degree, Schuyler ditched her graduation and spent the next 18 months of her life caring for her father, orchestrating jobs and making deliveries based on her own judgement, and preparing SAMTEX for the day it would no longer have the leadership of the only President it had ever known.

In February of 2008, Edward Schuyler lost his battle with prostate cancer at the age of 67. The wake and proceeding funeral were held four days later. SAMTEX had lost many brother's due to gangland violence before, but had never experienced the loss of an officer, much less a President. The SOA hadn't seen a loss so tragic since the passing of John Teller fifteen years prior. While many wanted to make the journey to Texas to pay respects to their sibling charter and the mourning family only members of the Original Nine were allowed to attend. Two of the five surviving members made the trip and were able to meet Schuyler personally. The secret was extended but had yet to be fully released. Piermont was unable to make the trip and will regret it for the rest of his life. When all was said and done Samantha retained most of Edward's worldly possessions including the deed to the mechanic shop and his official club vest which she hung in the living room on display; the Presidential patch worn with age facing the room at large. Schuyler requested only two things: Edward's impressive vinyl record collection, a patch from his very own club vest, and the last motorcycle he owned.

Many expected Schuyler to naturally inherit the President's patch in the face of Edward's passing. The club was ready to vote her in and had pushed for her to take the patch even while Edward's health had been deteriorating. After all, she had done the unthinkable. She had proven herself a worthy attribute capable of wearing the kutte regardless of her gender. It was the role she was breed for. The position she was intended to fill. She was the rightful heir to the gavel that rested at the head of the meeting table.

But it was after many long and hard conversations were held with the members at that very table, and with her mother who struggled the most because she had dreamed of little else than seeing her daughter break down barriers and take up the President's seat, that Schuyler decided to take a very different path.

She revealed to her club that her father had intended for the two of them to travel to Northern California and visit the charter he had left behind for many years before his untimely passing. It wasn't until the cancer was discovered that Edward realized that he had missed his opportunity to do so. Schuyler revealed that Edward had always intended for her to transfer charters when she came of age in order to find her own path and build her own legacy in a separate charter as not to compete in her father's demanding shadow. Schuyler wanted nothing more in the world than to keep her promises to her parents to make something of herself and make her father proud by continuing his legacy for him and finding her own way in the world.

Schuyler remained in Valor until new ranking officials could be appointed (Ethan Dyer was elected President and his son Jesse became his V.P) and SAMTEX was prepared to continue in her absence. Then she began what would essentially be a 7-week long journey. It was decided that before Schuyler attempted to make contact with the Mother Charter (now headed by Clayton Marrow who wore the President's patch and John Teller's only surviving son Jackson Teller who resided as the V.P) she would first be sponsored by a third-party charter. If she could convince a third charter of her worth and to vouch for her in just a few weeks time her chances of the Mother charter accepting her would likely double. This trial period would also allow her to experience working with a different charter and experience life and club structure from a different perspective.

It wasn't difficult to find a suitable host. Nearly every branch of the SOA in the States wanted to host the mystery SAMTEX child with an impressive club track record. Eventually it was decided that she would stay with the Southern California charter known as SANDINO due to its location. It also happened to be headed by one of the last surviving First Nine members Thomas "Uncle Tom" Whitney who had met Schuyler after her father's passing and would know what to expect from the club transfer.

Schuyler spent just over 6 weeks with the sibling charter. Tom, along with his fellow patch brothers, were skeptical to say the least upon meeting Schuyler. Many members felt betrayed having a female patch being kept a secret from them for so long. Schuyler, never one to disappoint, was quick to show her eagerness to work and proved herself valuable enough to earn the respect and camaraderie of each member. Many were even sad to see her go but they knew her destiny lied within another charter.

At the end of her trial period, and nervous for what was possibly the first time in her life though she refused to show it, Schuyler moved on from SANDINO and arrived on Charming's doorstep 3 days later, ready to take on her next great adventure.

Author's Notes: That was Edward. He, much like John, will be referenced throughout for guidance to the characters that survive him. And you have met Schuyler. But what is her "club record?" What is her story up to this point and who will it effect her now? And will the club willingly accept her after she was kept a secret for so long? I guess you'll just have to read the next chapter to find out...


	2. The Transfer

A motorcycle traveling fast and loud passed through Teller-Morrow's towering, sliding-gate entrance. The owner of this particular pan-head is Tig Trager who seamlessly reverse parks the machine into his unofficial, but nonetheless designated space in the middle of a lineup of miscellaneous Harleys. He is the last to arrive which is not unusual. He unclasps the strap of his helmet upon his dismount to reveal a short, tangled mass of black curls and sets it on the seat.

The bikes currently on the property are owned by members of a locally based motorcycle club known as the Sons of Anarchy. The machines can be seen from the open entrance lined against a metal railing that acts as a natural divide between a bar and a mechanical car shop. Members, along with a few closely reliable friends, are known to have their hands in assisting in the management of the sibling establishments. Yet it is one Clayton Marrow who has resided as the sole owner of the respective businesses for a minimum of the last ten years.

With Tig's auditory arrival Clay Morrow and Jackson Teller emerge from the club house to meet him at the bottom of the loading dock in front of the bar. He isn't given a chance to step away from his motorcycle before he is berated. "Look. I'm late, but I was caught up in something."

"Knowing you it was probably somebody," Clay, recognizable by his military styled white hair and matching mustache, approaches with his right hand pointing a single finger towards the younger man accusingly. "The new guy is almost here. I asked you to be on time for one thing."

"I know man. Won't happen again."

"Won't be the last time I hear that. Jax, status report."

Jackson, who had approached alongside Clay, spouts off the last known whereabouts of his fellow patch members. "Happy brought some of his guys down with him from Washington. Opie just got out of Chino. He picked up some work over at the lumber mill. His Oldman is up at the cabin, but he checked in with Bobby last week, so we know he's solid. Everyone else is in the clubhouse. I've told them everything we know about the recruit "Skylar". They're prepared to give him a proper SAMCRO welcome." Jackson finished with a flick of his head causing his shaggy blond hair to shift and immediately return to his face.

"Good. I like that I can always count on my V.P."

"Man, that's unnecessary," Tig pouts. It genuinely isn't his fault that he is late. He had been busy tying up loose ends. "How do you know this dude will show up today. From all the vague shit Jax has told me the dude is a total ghost. Completely unpredictable. A loose cannon, if you will."

"I hear he's had his eye on this charter for a while. He spent six weeks with San Bernardino which has unofficially given their blessing for him to jump charters. He did a few runs with them and proved himself capable. He's a doctor with some fancy degree…," the club's Vice President re-lays information as he recalls it with a look of general admiration for the stranger. It's a delicate political process that a club goes through to accept new members. One of only a few critical decisions that must be determined by a unanimous vote. However, bringing in preexisting members from neighboring chapters makes the decision marginally easier as the member in question has already been admitted by trusted allies. The vote to transfer members between regions is normally a direct one.

"Hmm, maybe we shouldn't vote him in. I've got enough cannons running around doing whatever the hell they want as is," Clay sneered as he bumped shoulders with his Sergeant in Arms to further emphasis his point.

"You wouldn't have me any other way."

"I might change a few things," Jackson interjects. Tig reaches out past Clay effectively pulling Jackson into a headlock.

While the two are caught up in a friendly wrestling match Clay glances towards the gate. He steps around his more rambunctious counterparts only to move closer towards the exit. The low rumble of a motorcycle engine can be heard fast approaching. "Hey, assholes! Why don't you join me? Think our newest family member just rolled in."

A sleek black motorcycle banks hard around a corner to put itself onto the same road as the Teller-Morrow auto parts shop. The driver doesn't slow down as they dart through the open metal door, circle the parking lot once, and come to an abrupt halt in the center of the factory under the critical eye of the three men who represent absolute authority in the small town of Charming, California. Jackson, who had Tig's arms pinned above his head, released the older man and moved fast to stand beside Clay to greet the new comer. Tig takes a breath to compose himself, readjusts his dark sunglasses to securely hide his eyes, and sets a stern face as he follows his President and Vice President's lead.

The engine cuts off sharply. Those who are working on vehicles in the open garage paused as the bike drove up but were quick to return to their tasks. None having recognized the bike or person operating it assumed that it was a member of the residing club they had yet to meet or one from a distant charter who had arrived for a visit.  
A long tapering leg clad in blue skinny jeans tucked into heavy leather combat boots sporting a one-inch heel with the laces synched tightly around the ankles kicks out a stand attached to the side of the bike. This action leading the driver to lean the machine to the left before releasing their grip on the handlebars.

Clay is hardly phased by the driver's noticeably smaller frame to the men who stand in comparison. "I trust the ride was a smooth one. I know you traveled some distance to…"  
Clay's voice trails off as the figure dismounts, whipping off a solid black bucket helmet which had previously encompassed their entire head. The figure reaches up with a single hand to pull gently on a ponytail causing their flaxen yellow hair to fall to their shoulders. The driver hangs the helmet off one handle and removes earbuds from both ears at the same time only to let the fall haphazardly still faintly producing music. The individual unzips the leather jacket they wear, relieving the pressure on their ample bust in the process, to retrieve a folded document in one of its inner pockets. The figure nears the trio with confident strides to place the paperwork directly into Clay's hand.

"Clay Morrow." Each man remains firm as they try to mask their surprise at the form they were not expecting, but rather had been presented with. It is the sultry voice produced by the woman that finally leads them to speak.

"That's me. I, uh, well I gotta ask," Clay huffs a laugh. "Are you the transfer?"

"Doctor Meredith Schuyler, but you can call me Sky. Two charters, fourteen hundred miles, and seven weeks between home and my end goal. Those are the transfer papers signed off by SAMTEX. Honestly, I'm glad I found this place. You blink, and you miss the turn off into the town."

"That's the point. All the easier to keep a low profile darlin'," Jackson reflexively responds. He regrets his choice in words the moment the syllables leave his mouth.

"Jackson Teller, right? V.P. And I guess that makes you Trager," Schuyler easily identifies each of the ranking officers of the club from the descriptions she had been previously given as well as the patches on the front of their kuttes which label them with the titles.

"You can call me Tig. That is, if you stick around long enough. What are you riding?" Tig asks smugly, hoping to catch Schuyler off guard.

"This old thing." She turns to look over her shoulder towards her bike. "It's a '06 Harley Davidson VRSCD Night Rod. It's an electric start with a wet clutch, 5 speed transmission, and a liquid cooling system. Fuel capacity's a little under 4 gallons. But don't let that spiel fool you. I know what I need to know about what I'm riding. I get a new bike, I learn all about it, and forget everything I knew about the last one. I'm not going to be able to tell you much or anything about whatever y'all are traveling on."

Clay disguises an interrogation question in the form of a joke. "Well, I guess that disqualifies you from working in the garage?"

"It's not like I don't know my way around a car, but I already have my day job sorted. Dropped off my resume on my way in."

"And where exactly did you drop it off? Just in case we ever need to keep tabs on the place."

"Overton Ridge Highway Clinic on the edge of town. They just happen to be looking for a replacement veterinarian. I believe they'll be very impressed with my resume."

"You seem confident," Tig presses, shifting from one foot to the next.

"Pretty confident."

"That's a full-time gig, is it not?" Jackson is next to question.

"I cased the place ahead of time. It's the most flexible clinic around. There are two other doctors on staff. I'll work the shit shift for a month or two, no questions asked. I'll be established in next to no time then be able to demand they give me some leeway on my schedule. You just call me up whenever you need me, and I'll get out of there as soon as I can slip away."

"That's assuming we need you at all." Tig tilts his head forward as he delivers the threat then back and away from the conversation trying to appear as flippant as possible.

Schuyler looks for a moment as if she wants to reply before thinking better of challenging the SA and settles for returning Clay's gaze instead.

"How about," Jackson steps in to relieve the tension, "You head into the clubhouse."

"Yes," Clay is quick to agree. His smile revealing large blocky teeth tinted the lightest possible shade of yellow. "The place is yours, so make yourself comfortable. Free range. Except the chapel. I'm sure you can find some friendly faces milling around. Go mingle. Church will be held in a day or two and I'll call a vote to see if you make the cut."

"If I were you, I would take the next couple of days to really get to know some of us. After we finish here, I'll come in and we can have a face to face. Give you your due time to present your case to me," Jackson advises with a good-natured wink. He would have given similar advice to any transferring member and has been known to give prospects he sponsors similar speeches, but he knows how important it is for Schuyler to take initiative and make friends prior to the vote being held.

"Sure thing. Thanks for having me. I look forward to meeting you all. Even you, sourpuss," Schuyler says while walking backwards towards her bike. "Can I park in the lineup or is that off limits till church too?"

"No, have at it. Find a spot and squeeze in. Near the end should be good. Only since you're new," Jackson suggests.

Schuyler straddles her bike once more. She backs into a spot at the very end of the lineup next to a white motorcycle that she takes time to admire.

"Do you have a kutte," Clay asks. He notices the leather she is wearing doesn't have a single patch. The woman nods in his general direction. "Best to put it on. Guys in there might take more kindly to you and not start off with the wrong intentions."

Schuyler nods again, understanding the need specific to her to be cautious during the first few days of her transition. She pulls her official club vest from a bag hanging off the back of her bike. She shakes it out and holds it in her hands reading "TEXAS" in a faded black and white patch along the bottom hem. She is hoping to see it read "California" by the end of the weekend. She twists the leather around her body and slides it over both arms at once hoping she looks as seamless as she is attempting to appear in front of the ring leaders of the Mother charter. Her steps remain confident as she enters the bar.

"What the hell was that Tig?" Jackson demands as soon as Schuyler is out of ear shot.

"What, I'm the only one thinking it? Why didn't you tell us it was a damn chick? That's some pretty serious information to keep to yourself. Shit's gotta break some sort of bylaw."

"I didn't know. Our brothers never described her as anything, but reliable. They only ever used the name Schuyler. I guess I assumed."

"Well you know what they say about assuming," Clay quips, "And we all looked like asses. This wasn't no accident. Listen to me. If she's as good as the rumors and Uncle Tom, Original Nine, himself say she is then we all have to give her a chance to prove herself. That includes you, asshole."

"Hey, if I had had a heads up I would have been on my best behavior. I swear," Tig tries to defend himself in vain.

"You thinking about testing her somehow?" Jackson asks, worried by the very thought.

"No, but I want you specifically to get to know her. Sus her out. See if she's got what it takes to bare the Reaper."

"Someone thought so. She's been a patched member in her home charter for nearly a decade. Her father was also Original Nine and let her take charge while he was laid up," Jackson points out.

"So, you're telling me it was the dying wish of her old man that got her patched? We haven't seen that she can do what the other patches say she can," Tig counters harshly.

Clay shakes his head and rubs his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. "It's a club decision."

Schuyler steps through the front door getting out of the harsh midday sunlight that hangs overhead. Inside she is met with a very average looking bar with pool tables and dining tables covering the floor. The immediate difference between this bar and ones she has previously been in is made obvious to her when she spots a wall covered with framed pictures of what are presumably mugshots of over a dozen men. They hang beside a set of heavy wooden doors she knows that lead to the club "chapel". It's the spitting image of the bar she left back in Texas and smiles already feeling at home.

She continues forward until she is parallel with the end corner of the bar in the heart of the club. There she sees a group of four men sitting on either side of the counter dressed in varying degrees of leather and visible ink talking quietly amongst themselves. A young Puerto Rican man with a finely shaved mohawk and tribal tattoos on either side of his head is standing behind the bar. He seems to be the most similar to Schuyler in terms of age and happens to be the first to notice her arrival. "Hey, are you lost?"

The question proposed wasn't intended to be malicious but asked out of pure curiosity. Schuyler makes a point to turn her entire body until the top-rocker is visible to the men at the bar. "Teller-Morrow, right? Pretty sure I'm in the right place."

"Holy shit," the same man mutters to the rest of the group, "Guys it's her. She's the transfer. Holy shit. I didn't know…"

"That's how I like it. My reputation precedes me and my gender. Leads to so many fun faces like the ones looking at me right now."

"Why don't you pull up a stool and have a seat with us?" Another man who is obviously the largest in terms of weight with long graying hair suggests while patting a seat next to him in the middle of the small group. A 'Secretary' flash is sewed onto the upper right side of his vest. This being a visual signal to Schuyler that he is the final ranking official that she needs to identify. "Get to know us a little. I hear you are joining us all the way from Texas."

"Hope my accent didn't give it away. I'll stand for now, but thanks." Schuyler waves a hand as she dismisses the stool acknowledging that it had been left vacant to create a socially acceptable distance between the man who had offered it and the youngest male of the group with short blond hair. She has no intention of filling that space between the two strangers. Her arms remain at her sides and she is careful to keep her stance open. "Born and raised, unfortunately. Try not to hold it against me."

"My name Is Bobby Elvis. This here is Chibs. The smart one over there is Juice," The man who introduced himself as Bobby points around the bar counter clockwise introducing each of the men in turn.

The man with the skull tattoos named Juice offers a friendly wave, "Hey, how's it going?"

"And this here is Prospect."

"Name's Kip, but my friends call me Half-Sack. I just started prospecting."

"Isn't Kip already a nickname?" Schuyler asks. "How do you get from that to Half-Sack?"

"Oh, right. I served time in the armed forces," Half-Sack begins to explain as he slides off the stool and his hands reach towards his belt.

"Ah, Sack, she doesn' need a visual presentation," the man who had yet to verbally express himself finally speaks up. Schuyler is genuinely jarred when she registers a prominent and unmistakable European accent come from the originally quite man. Upon further inspection, she's equally surprised to find two pronounced scars just a millimeter shy of being perfectly identical following the curves of the man's cheeks. The indentions are positioned in such a way as to both highlight the man's cheeks and draw attention to his mouth outlined by a thin goatee all at once. She finds herself wanting to ask the man questions to hear his voice once more and see how exactly the scars move while he speaks, but rather realizes she is staring and quickly rolls her eyes to come back to herself. Hoping she hadn't been to forward, she pretends to be especially interested in the veteran's story and focuses on the prospect who had begun speaking quickly once more.

"Right, anyway. I served some time and got my left nut blown off in an Iraqi mine field. Hurt like hell for the longest time, but it healed quicker than you might expect. It's more impressive than it sounds," The young blond finishes explaining as he once again perches on the stool.

"Sounds intense. Medical discharge?" Schuyler questions.

"No, I just finished my enlistment in a low maintenance sector and decided not to resign. I survived the remainder of my time, but I didn't want to risk 'righty' with a second deployment."

"I think that's fair."

"Didn't quite get your name yet miss," the man called Chibs points out. This comment once again brings the conversation back to the subject of the sole female in the room. Schuyler knew to expect constant attention and careful tiptoeing treatment around her until the members became accustomed to her presence. It would be exactly like how she was treated the first few days she was in San Bernardino, but even with this knowledge she is still no more excited to be receiving such unflattering attention.

"Schuyler. Feel free to call me Sky," saying her own name out loud causes Schuyler to become hyper-self aware and she didn't know if it was appropriate to include the fact that she is a doctor which led her to leave that information out. "Nice to meet everyone."

"Hey, is it true you can throw knives. Like, really well," Juice suddenly asks, making no attempt to hide his enthusiasm. Schuyler knows he expects a performance to follow.

"Little forward, don't you think? You see, anyone can throw a knife with any sort of force," she states evenly as she very nonchalantly reaches down to the holster holding 3 knives exactly 6.5 inches in length strapped securely to her mid-thigh to remove one from its constraints. "It takes a person of true talent and precision to accurately throw a throwing knife."

As Schuyler explains this, she releases a sleek black knife, seemingly without appearing to aim, from her slender hand sending it flying smoothly through the air, over Half-Sack's left shoulder, to land securely in the center of a dart board hanging over the end of the bar.

"Oh, that is seriously dope," Juice said in awe as Schuyler walks to the wall to retrieve the knife. She holds the knife aloft in her right hand weaving it through her fingers in one direction and then the opposite before replacing it in its sheath in a single fluid motion. "What are you drinking? I'll get it for ya."

"Jack and coke. Neat. Thanks."

"Alright," Juice moves further down the bar to prepare the drink as Schuyler returns to her originally chosen floor space between Bobby and the prospect.

"Now you've done it. He's interested in you," Bobby comments in a hushed tone and, as much as Schuyler wants to believe that Bobby is only making a joke at her expense, she knows that the theory is most likely true.

"Yeah, well, he's a little young for me. But, uh, what about the Sergeant? Is he really a hard ass or is it just a front?" Schuyler inquires, smoothly redirecting the conversation in her favor. She had spent nearly seven weeks with SANDINO and gained their approval in record time. But she is on the clock with SAMCRO. She needs to learn as much about this new group as she possibly can if she is going to have a chance of earning their approval.

"Tig," Juice, oblivious to the previous comment that was made about him, returns with Schuyler's drink in hand and slides it to her across the counter, "He's weird, but you warm up to him. Or maybe he warms up to you. I'm not sure which."

"He give you a hard time?" Bobby asks with a knowing look.

"Nothing I can't handle. Going back to the 'faces' I mentioned. He was just caught off guard. I'm sure he isn't used to that feeling," Schuyler explains.

Chibs once again speaks up, "Tiggy is a character for sure. He can be an asshole, but he's a good egg and carries that badge with authority and pride."

"That's reassuring. Truly, it is. Sergeant is a demanding role and not everyone can handle it."

"Tig was born for it. He's a freak," Half-Sack throws in with a laugh and everyone in the circle, including Schuyler who is used to initiating prospects in her own chapter, turn to give him a stern look. He immediately knows a mistake has been made and tries to correct it. "But like, in a good way. You know, like a compliment."

"Shut up Half-Sack or you'll be out there on your knees shining my bike. Again," Chibs states. The sentence comes out harsh due to his accent, but his eyes shine in a way that conveys he is making a joke.

Schuyler has a 50-50 chance of guessing the older gentleman's nationality correctly by accent alone. "Scottish right? Like, proper."

"If by proper, ye mean born in the Motherland, then yeah. I'm properly Scottish," the man with short and messy brown hair replies sarcastically. Schuyler can't prevent her eyes from flicking down to watch Chibs' scars shift as he answers her. The indentions only made more prominent when he leaned into some choice syllables to further exaggerate his accent.

"The hell are you doing over here on this side of the pond with us simple folk? If you don't mind me asking," Schuyler makes a point to meet his brown eyes as he answers her next question with an equally sarcastic reply.

"Ye hear that lads? She must think I'm royalty. About damn time if ye ask me!"

That remark brought a laugh out of the group. Schuyler graciously laughs along letting the comment wash over her. Jokes at her expense are to be expected after all. Not only in this type of association, but with her being a transfer she'd be patched into the charter immediately as opposed to prospecting first. Each man had to get his licks in on Schuyler while he still could. As the laughter dies off, Schuyler makes an attempt to continue the conversation by remarking, "I guess I just mean I don't think much of the folks back home. Not the ones outside my club anyway."

"Well there's yer answer. I'm running. Just like you," Chibs confesses, very honestly, as he leans his full weight on leather clad forearms against the bar and his demeanor becomes very serious.

"I can certainly respect that," Schuyler replies with a nod of her head that she hopes conveys understanding and respect. The Scotsman pulls himself back off the counter and picks up a glass beer bottle that had been sitting beside him a foot away. He knocks back what is left of the brown liquid and chunks the empty container into a trashcan somewhere underneath the bar.

Schuyler interprets the action as a visual cue to pick up her own glass and start drinking. Treating the exchange as a test she maintains eye contact to avoid appearing intimidated. Only after retrieving the glass that is intended for her from the bar does she avert her eyes. Everyone in the group takes a silent moment to sip on their drinks. It is during this silence that Tig barrels into the bar demanding a drink of his own. "Prospect, get up!"

"Beer, Tiggy," Juice asks without waiting for a response from the older member as he moves around Chibs to travel to the other side of the bar where the fridge is positioned.

Tig sits where the prospect once was effectively pushing the younger man a stool further down the bar. "Any reason you're standing," he asks the woman who had still refused to sit on a stool.

"Asserting my dominance. Don't I look intimidating?"

Clay walks into the bar just as the door closes from the dramatic entrance. He travels through the clubhouse and closes himself into the chapel without offering a word or glance to anyone around him. Jackson appears a single step behind him and approaches the group with purpose. "Schuyler. Got a minute?"

Schuyler steps even further away from the group of men and waits to see which direction Jackson will move in before attempting to follow. Jackson walks straight through the ravine she creates only to wander down a hallway leading further into the clubhouse. Schuyler follows suit.

"Beautiful thing isn't it," Juice asks, watching the pair disappear into one of the hidden rooms in the back. "Two blondes walking away?"

"Hey," Bobby states firmly. "That just might be your future sister you're talking about. Have a little respect."

—

Jackson holds a door open for Schuyler to pass through ahead of himself. Schuyler elects to lean on the nearest piece of upright furniture and faces the room at large prepared to answer an assortment of questions no matter how objectionable to ease any concerns the Vice President may have of her.

Jackson, comfortable in his surroundings because he has spent the last several months living in this very apartment room, sinks heavily on the corner of the bed. He taps an area of the mattress a short distance from where he sits as an offering. Schuyler willingly sits this time, though she rests six inches further from where Jackson had suggested.

Schuyler leans her back against the headboard and decides it is better for her to break the silence. "Are we having a slumber party?"

"Something like that," Jackson begins. He turns his body to rest his left leg on the mattress ahead of himself. He faces Schuyler head on unsure exactly where he wants the conversation to begin or conclude. "You've built quite the reputation for yourself. You impressed SoCal. I think every charter from here to Belfast knows your name. But how many members outside of your charter have met you? How many of them know your face?"

"How many know I have such a nice rack?" Schuyler offers.

Jackson can't help the laugh that escapes him, surprised by the woman's frankness. "Sorry. Was I staring?"

"Only an appropriate amount considering you didn't know your new 'brother' would have one," Schuyler replies good naturally. "My father knew that it was a risk to his authority by patching me in without running the idea through other charters first."

"Then why take the risk? Why not take it to a bigger table?"

"Because he was being selfish. He didn't want to challenge any bylaws. He knew it would be impossible to change the club's more outdated opinions of women over night. He just wanted an exception to be made for me."

Jackson ponders the information. "Did he see any backlash?"

"Not for the first 16 years or so. Right before it came time for me to start prospecting a few of the men voiced their doubts. Ten years later, they were asking me to lead after my old man turned to ash. How's that for irony?"

"How did you keep it a secret for so long? How old are you, twenty-five? Seems word would have gotten out, eventually. If not from inside the club then elsewhere."

"Twenty-eight actually. How many grown men do you know would admit to having their ass handed to them by a chick?" Schuyler asks unable to hide the smug grin that creeps onto her face.

"That how it went down?"

"And I've got witnesses to prove it. If I showed up to enough drops our associates just became accustomed to my presence. It's when I stated talking that problems arose. But I've got a real winning personality," Schuyler explains with a knowing look. "Any enemies we made were easily persuaded to keep from spreading rumors. I'm not sure how closely you keep track of members locations, but if you go back and look at records you'll find that people transfer out of SAMTEX but never transfer in. My father's passing was the first instance when outsiders were invited to Valor. Even then, I invited Original Nine only. You think you're hidden up here in Charming? We're off the grid."

"And that was all for you? The great secret of SAMTEX?" Jackson questions intently. He expects there is more to the story that has yet to be revealed.  
Schuyler knows that it is best to prevent joining the club with any secrets left to be discovered. "There were a few people who knew. I've never meet them. I've only ever heard the names. But I know they were real close to my dad. Piermont Winston. And your father, JT."

Jackson's face drops, confused. "My dad? He's been gone for years, but Piney is still in this charter."

"Edward used to tell me stories of when they were in Vietnam. How he wouldn't have made it back to my mom without their help. He was never shy in admitting that they were the two people he trusted above all others. And that's why he told them the night I was born."

"JT sanctioned your patching."

"My father would have never made the decision without his counsel. He knew going behind the Mother charter's back would have been treason and he wasn't willing to risk his club or his friendships. The way it was told to me is he annoyed your father for a couple of weeks until he was forced to agree."

"Agree to what?"

Schuyler looks about her surroundings as if the answer is made obvious by her very presence. "JT gave me a chance. I wouldn't be sitting here if he hadn't allowed my father to raise me immersed in the charter. I knew how to fire a gun before I knew how sex worked. I knew how to balance on a motorcycle before I ever put a car into gear. My friends were the boys I prospected with. I was groomed for this club from the very day I was born."

"Then why not tell everyone after you patched in? There was no risk," Jackson is trying to rationalize why his father would keep such a big secret and such a big part of his life from the rest of his club.

"Well, I guess it was part of the deal. JT agreed that it would be a decision made by SAMTEX to patch me or cast me aside. When the time came…I guess my dad just didn't want to rock the boat. It was a decision made in the wake of JT's passing when big changes were happening club wide. And even though his name still carries a great deal of weight he wouldn't have been there to support Edward's ruling. Why ruin a good thing?" Schuyler pauses to gauge whether the man sitting across from her is following her stream of consciousness. "You say Piermont is still around?"

"Yeah." Jackson is still processing the information in his own time. "He's not here tonight but should be around for church."

"Then you know he supported our fathers' decision to keep me in the dark. I think they assumed the rest of the club wouldn't be prepared to answer the challenge my joining brought to the table with an outcome that either my father or I liked." Schuyler makes a conscious decision to lead with total honesty. Without the trust of the V.P she has no chance of gaining the other members' votes and joining their ranks. "I think the real reason my father never let the secret out is because he feared losing me. He didn't want me to be an outcast from the only family I've ever known. He always thought that the club was the only thing keeping me close. He had rather of seen his only child barreling down the highway with a Reaper on her back than to bring it to a larger table," Schuyler grows more quiet the longer she speaks hoping that the man who she has just met will understand her plight.

Jackson can sympathize with the woman he sits across from. Though JT passed away fifteen years previous, Jackson still remembers him fondly and tries his best to honor his father's memory by living in the club he had built from scratch. After some quiet contemplation he dips his head low to indicate his recognition of the need to make a parent proud. "I think," Jackson says, breaking the silence, "if you tell the guys down the hall that exact same story none of them are going to have a problem honoring your father's wishes. Considering all he did to establish history for the Reaper."

"Thank you for hearing me. I'm sure you'll hear my case several more times, but I'm glad I could tell you directly," Schuyler stands and offers her hand to Jackson. He, too, stands from the bed and positions himself to be toeing with the shorter blonde. He takes her hand in a firm grip that she tries to meet with equal intensity.

"I look forward to getting to know you and I hope you find what you're looking for with SAMCRO," Jackson states, verbalizing that she indeed has earned his vote to join his chapter. He gestures towards the door for the two of them to leave the same way they had entered. "Nice grip. Needs some work though."

The two newly acquainted companions return to the main room of the clubhouse intent on rejoining the conversation which had gravitated towards a new discussion since the duo had departed. The group has since grown, now including Clay who is sitting in comfortable silence at a table on the floor overlooking the group's light banter. He is joined by a man who must certainly be the eldest of the group if his thinning hairline and the oxygen tubes in his nostrils are anything to go by. The chatter didn't falter, but merely continued at its leisurely pace and the only man to notice Jackson and Schuyler's return is the new addition to the group that Schuyler has yet to meet.

The man looks as though he has been not-so-patiently waiting. The look of awe that falls upon his wrinkled face is only comparable to that as if he had seen an angel. He unsteadily gets to his feet, clutching a black bag tightly to his side that connects to the oxygen line he is breathing, and shuffles forward in an attempt to meet the woman he seeks to speak with. His movements soon gather the attention of the rest of the members causing all communication to cease.

"Hey Piney," Jackson greets the elder as he joins Clay at the table. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you 'til church."

"Well that was almost true. Until I was told the name of the transfer from Bobby last week. You couldn't keep me from being here to welcome Eddie's only child into my club." Piney answers with a gravelly voice that matches the portable oxygen he carries. His words are sincere as he comes to a halt just inches in front of Schuyler. "Look at you. You have his smile."

Schuyler studies the man up and down trying to place his face. The way he is speaking suggests that he knows her unlike any other member. She is quick to conclude that she has never met the man personally but offers a smile upon recognition of the 'First 9' patch on his vest that is so similar to the one that her father wore on his own. "Do I know you, friend?"

The old man smiles sadly. "But your voice is all Sammy. No, I don't guess you would. My name is Piney Winston. I'm a member of the Original Nine. When we were dispatched John, Edward, and I, we built this club from the ground up. And when all the plans fell into place, he moved back to Texas to be with your mother. SAMTEX was the first attempt to create a branching charter and there was only one-man JT trusted to lead so far from ground zero. Sammy, her home was Texas, and Eddie's home was with her. But he never forgot SAMCRO. We kept in touch until the very year he passed. I still call Sammy every couple of weeks, but I haven't seen either of them since John passed."

Schuyler's own smile wavers. "Mom still has the pictures from dad's service days. I grew up with stories of you and John. My parents were real broken up about his passing. Condolences."

Piney laughs. It's a miserable sound that escapes him. "John was a very long time ago…Eddie, was not. I'm sorry I couldn't make the wake, but I told your mother I was no longer up to such a long ride. There's so few of us left…I was a lot younger in those photos you would have seen."

"I reckon he was thinner too," Half-Sack comments in what he probably meant to be a whisper, but it was not. Chibs reaches across the bar to smack the back of the much younger man's head to silence him as the emotional meeting continues.

"Yes," Piney acknowledges, "Younger and thinner. It's your time to lead."

"Woah, woah, woah," Tig interrupts the quiet moment between the two mourning individuals after such a hefty claim is made. "Let me get this straight? You knew the whole time."  
Piney responds, his eyes unwavering yet wet as he speaks directly to Schuyler, "I remember the call I received the night you were born. Neither of your parents wanted to know the sex until you arrived. Eddie cried in relief over the phone to me that he would have the privilege to raise a level-headed girl instead of a rambunctious boy like John and I raised."

A smile returns to her young face. "There's a reason he didn't try again for a boy. I was enough for him to handle."

"I bet you were! Come on. I want to hear about Valor. Who's running things now that you're gone?"

All the attention in the room is put on Schuyler as she follows Piney to the table. She takes a seat beside Jackson across from the two eldest men of the group and spreads her knees wide while relaxing into the wooden chair.

"SAMTEX is being overseen by former V.P Ethan Dyer while the V.P patch went to his son." Schuyler made sure to make eye contact with every man in the room while speaking. "Jesse, my age. Hoping he'll stick around for a good long while and there won't be need for another election too soon. His number one priority is to keep the club current. I know him well and endorsed him for the position. It turns out he was the best choice. I stuck around long enough to see things put into order. Then I took off. Been wearing the same kutte, but in truth I've been living Nomad. Don't know if you heard Piney, but I spent something like two months with SoCal getting to know those folks before landing here. Hoping this is where I'll be staying, at least for a while."

"I have a question," Bobby asks suddenly. "Did you ever hold office?"

"I was up for Secretary a few years back. But ultimately, we decided we were pushing our luck as it was. The compromise we came to was that I would never be an officer."

"And you've made peace with that, have you?" Clay asks gruffly. He avoids Piney's gaze when asking the question, knowing the old man already has his heart set on seeing his military friend's child in the charter beside his own son. He instead settles for meeting Tig's scrutinizing gaze, making it evident that he still doesn't trust the unfamiliar body occupying the clubhouse.

"Much to my mother's dismay. She always hoped that I would take over from my old man. She still has a picture of me sitting in the president's chair that my father took when I was, oh, 10. Me, I never really wanted the responsibility. Not that I couldn't handled it; It was just never the priority. It was hard enough to earn a kutte. I didn't think much about what could come after. Maybe I've become complacent. Maybe I've just accepted the role I was born to play. I belong in this club. My rank doesn't have any sway over that fact."

Clay remains resolved as he absorbs the information. He faces Schuyler across the table from himself. "That's very mature. Not everyone gets to be the boss, but everyone has a job. Knowing the job and doing it holds this club together."

"Sammy wanted you to be President?" Piney asks tentatively.

Schuyler sighs. The only way she would be accepted is if she told the absolute truth. "I realized not long before my father passed, while he wanted me to be a member, he still wanted me to find my own way. That's why he pushed for college. I chose a major that was vastly removed from the life. While I know my father loved the family he created in Texas there was always a part of him that wanted to come back here. He intended to take me on a road trip that would lead us here and start me off on the right foot with you all. Then he got sick and it never happened. He didn't have to say it. Edward Schuyler wanted me here."

—

Clay calls for church to take place two days later. The current club members drop their phones one by one into an empty cigar box on the nearest pool table while each making their way through the wooden doors to take their respective seats around the redwood table that bares a reaper carved into its center. Clay is seated at the head of the table with his right hand resting against the surface next to a gavel. With everyone seated, and the doors closed, he picks the wooden tool up off its stand and slams it down hard creating a fierce noise signaling the start of the meeting.

Tig is to his right confident in his SA chair across the table from Jackson who fills the V.P seat. Bobby takes up quite a bit of room at the designated Secretary chair with a folder filled with paperwork in an assorted variety preparing to take notes. The remaining members are sat where they naturally landed in their seats. The group forms a relatively small table with a seat even being left unoccupied.

The prospect, who is not yet a full patch member, is left to keep Schuyler company outside of the chapel as the meeting is held and, inevitably, the vote for Schuyler's fate is tallied.

Clay leans back heavily in his chair and looks around the table once before he begins conducting business. "Let's start with something simple. Treasury. What's the damage this month?"

Bobby is quick to shove on his reading glasses and reply, "All bills paid. Bar's stocked. Preorder placed, actually. The uh, "Run-fund" is covered for the next two months. Not bad overall. Tig's the only man who owes me dues."

Tig raises his arm over his head in acknowledgement then scratches at his brow with his thumb. "A little short. Catch you next week."

"Good. Let's not forget," Clay states. "Niners are expecting to receive some new hardware this week. Drop happens Thursday. I'm going to need everyone there to make sure the trade is handled quick and painless."

"Maybe Schuyler would be willing to help us out with that shipment," Piney rasps from the mirrored end of the table.

"Maybe Oldman," Clay squares himself against the table and places his palms out in front of himself. "There's no more avoiding it. There's a patch from a sibling charter looking to take up roots here in Charming. Everyone's had an opportunity to meet her. Anyone have any concerns or words of encouragement they would like to bring to the table? If so, speak freely."

Everyone silently reflects on their experiences with the transfer over the last few days. Each man has his own opinions of the woman waiting in the next room over and none of them are considerably negative. Fewer are outstandingly positive. All but one hold their doubts about voting in the stranger.

Tig is the first to offer a con thinking himself to be the voice of reason in this situation. "Are we going to tell the other charters? I think we should even if she's out. My main roadblock with this is that she was kept a secret. The club has a right to know who's walking around in the kutte."

Juice finds himself disagreeing. "Let's leave that up to another vote. One issue at a time brother."

"Schuyler should be in on that vote," Piney pushes. "That decision affects her more than the most."

Chibs' speaks, shoving an index finger hard into the surface in front of him. "Whose to say her identity is the only thing she's hiding. I need to trust those sitting at this table."

Jackson responds quickly. "During our sit-down Schuyler told me why her identity was kept a secret. She had her reasons, but she was able to look me in the eye and I believed that truth. She's not hiding anymore."

Bobby is able to offer a pro. "The way I see it Schuyler's made a point to involve herself since she got here. She hasn't done anything to prove her skills we keep hearing about, but we haven't exactly given her a chance to do so. She's answered our questions and hasn't given me a reason not to trust her."

Piney gathers his strength to stand using the table for balance. "Schuyler didn't get here by accident. She had the approval of 3 Original Nine members long before she began prospecting. JT and I knew to trust Edward's judgement. He wouldn't have patched her if she wasn't worthy of the Reaper. The fact of the matter is a lot of people in Texas are alive and a far better off with her in this club. She brought a lot of change and did her part in her charter. Now she's here to make that very same difference in Charming. SAMCRO would be lucky to host her and any one of you would have to be brain-dead to vote against her."

"Anyone else," Clay asks looking around the table to allow Piney the time to find his seat. When he receives no response he continues, "Let's go ahead and vote on this. I'll start. Yay."

Jackson is next. His answer clear. "Yay."

Bobby follows his commanding officers' lead without any forethought. "Yay."

"I'm a 'yay'," Juice states, excited by the concept of a new member his own age joining.

"Hell yes!" Piney exclaims. Then he turns to bore holes with his gaze into the two voters who remain.

Chibs looks to his left as if addressing Tig directly as he still senses his brother's uncertainty, "I don't see why not. Aye."

Tig's eyes remain on the wooden Reaper in the table that seems to meet his gaze. The silence stretches on as he feels the eyes in the room search him out. The group waits patiently for Tig to deliver the final vote. The feeling of tension rises in the room as the decision is left to him and he ultimately decides to vote with his brothers. "Yep."

Clay smiles knowingly, "Motion passes. Bring her in!" he demands as he slams the gavel down signaling the end of the meeting.

The table audibly expresses their enthusiasm. Piney thanks his friends for helping him to pass the motion. He moves as quickly as he can to the top draw of a filing cabinet in the back of the room. He pulls from it a brand new black and white stitched patch reading 'California' in large letters that he clutches tightly to his chest in two hands as he returns to his chair. Tig feels Clay's hand clamp down hard on his shoulder as his President encourages him to stand. Tig is the one to open the chapel door and bark a command to the newest edition of SAMCRO. "Get in here."

Schuyler looks up from her beer, nods to the prospect to excuse herself from the conversation they had been having and stands from the bar stool to walk confidently through the door Tig props open. She walks to the back of the room to face Clay and the table at large.

"A verdict has been reached. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

"I hope its good news. Otherwise, I traveled an awful long way for a round trip."

"You do realize what your joining this charter will mean?" Clay says. He is instilling the gravity of the situation into all members at the table. "The kind of heat it could bring to Charming?"

Jackson adds somberly, "It won't be easy. I'm can't promise that any one of our buyers will be as welcoming as we are."

"Do you assume I had it easy back home? Trust me. It was hell to earn that vote. We went weeks without revenue from our more lucrative sources when I first started prospecting. Fortunately, I'm a big girl and have dealt with my fair share of unhappy clients. It's easier for me to face the world in this vest than to do it alone."

Clay resigns to sigh heavily as he stands from his seat. "Well in that case. If you're willing to face opposition…"

Piney presents Schuyler with the badge. "You're in."

Schuyler beams as she receives the badge from the older patch member. The room erupts with boistrus applause as is custom and everyone bolts out of their seats to surround the transfer who has just made history by becoming the first female member of the Northern California charter. She quickly admires it only to stuff it into an inner jacket pocket intent on sewing it onto her vest as soon as possible.

"This is cool," Juice is the first to say. "Weird, but cool. I've never had a sister before."

"Prospect," Clay hollers into the bar room, "We need drinks."

"Welcome to the club sweetheart," Piney compliments Schuyler as he leans down to give her a hug that lingers for several long moments. She's taken aback at first as her face clearly indicates, but her smile returns as she hugs the man back just as tightly. During this time, Tig watches from behind his chair distant from the group and examines Schuyler's behavior.

As the two separate he decides it is his turn to congratulate the woman. "You really made it huh?"

"Looks that way don't it? Must be my girlish charm. You should know Sergeant. We wouldn't still be talkin' if you hadn't voted for me to stay," Schuyler brags, taking in a breath trying to make herself appear bigger to the man who is sizing her up.

Tig's eyes take in Schuyler's entire form none too discretely and he replies, "Girlish isn't the word I'd use," only for his attention to be called to the bar and he walks away briskly as if nothing he said had been suggestive in the least.

Schuyler shakes her head, flattered more than anything, and continues to move about the room to accept warm wishes from the remaining members.

—

The next morning Schuyler wakes up in the cheapest house she found to rent. With a total of four rooms, the walls are bare, and the building is essentially empty except for basic utilities, a twin sized bed, and a few hastily marked cardboard boxes dispersed throughout. She has yet to unpack any of them as every moment she has spent in Charming has been at the clubhouse. Up to this point she has been living out of a single suitcase. There isn't even food in the poor excuse for a kitchen. She is hard pressed to recall the last time she ate more than the stale peanuts at TM's bar.  
Schuyler dedicated over an hour to replacing her "Texas" badge with the new "California" patch along the bottom hem of her club vest. Today she will be trading that very kutte for medical scrubs. Though she had returned home in the early morning hours, she stirs long before she set her alarm to ring. With hours to kill she dresses in her scrub bottoms for their comfort and mobility. Then she busies herself with organizing what little she brought with her from Texas.

While unpacking, she concerns herself with what to expect on her first day in a new clinic. Since graduation, she has utilized her degree to sew up more bullet wounds in the back of pickup trucks than in any sort of surgical setting. The weeks when she would pick up a shift or two as a relief veterinarian had been few and far in between. She worked out of several clinics around her hometown and while she never became close with anyone on staff, everyone always conveyed enjoyment when working in her company compared to other relief vets in the area. However, this will be Schuyler's first full time position and she will need to make a concerted effort to bond with the staff if they are going to keep her on the time clock.

Schuyler's train of thought is interrupted when her prepaid phone-not her personal iPhone-vibrates on her nightstand. A text flashes on its small screen containing a single address and nothing more. Schuyler is momentarily torn between being late to the first day of her day job and being absent the first time she is summoned by what will ultimately be her full-time job. She resolves to change from her scrub bottoms into black skinny jeans and packs her scrubs in a bag. Never one to compromise, Schuyler is determined to make both. While arriving on her motorcycle isn't necessarily ideal for the practice, she can change into her uniform at the clinic. Driving her Harley to work, in fact, can be used to subtly drop the hint that while she will always live up to her promise to the hospital, she has responsibilities to attend to outside of office hours.

Schuyler rides twenty minutes out of her way and ten minutes out of town until she comes upon a small clearing. She parks her bike facing towards the only exit. A single dirt road leading back into town. She removes her helmet to survey the scene.  
Four motorcycles are parked amid half a dozen response vehicles including a single firetruck. The reason for the firetruck is made clear by the sheer amount of destruction that scatters the plot of land. It appears as though a large building once stood in the center of the clearing. What remains is a pile of burned ruble, broken glass, and charred wooden planks. Most notably are the bits of metal and, in some cases, still fully intact firearms that scatter the land and surrounding tree line.  
All four ranking officials stand in a circle around a man in a uniform who Schuyler assumes to be the local law enforcement. The group are speaking in hushed tones about what had caused the fire and money is not so discreetly changed between hands. Schuyler leans back on her bike, not yet willing to make her affiliation with the club known to outsiders, and looks on as the officer leads the men further into the wreckage. He stops to open what once was used as a freezer. She can clearly see all the men gazing down upon something that is hidden in the large ice chest. More words and cash are exchanged, the lid is swiftly closed, and the group disperses.

Clay locates Schuyler amid the commotion and decides to catch her up on what the destruction of the building will mean to the future of the MC's business.

As he walks, he pulls a gun from behind his back, using it to gain Jackson's attention. "Two in the back of the head. Quick and painless."

"It ain't easy being king."

"You remember that." Clay halts in front of Schuyler. "Glad you could join us. Sorry you couldn't see the factory when it was up and running."

Schuyler glances behind him causally to what is left of the club's primary source of income. She doesn't have to ask to know that this building was once the location where the club stored their illegal artillery for later distribution. "I'm sure it was a sight to behold. Looks like I came at just the right time. Do tell me there's a secondary location."

"Not yet," Jackson informs her. "And turns out our more valuable 'product' has turned up missing."

"But you're going to help us get it back," Clay concludes as he steps up to the woman to clap a hand on her shoulder. The action is gentle, but no less than how he would engage with one of his brothers.

Schuyler bows her head, but her blue eyes brighten making her appear even younger. "Great. Start me off with a problem to fix. I'm pretty good at that."

Author's Notes: And so Schuyler is tentatively patched. She's met the crew and some members are ecstatic while others are less than thrilled. But are her problems just beginning? Find out next time, in TROD!


	3. Up in the Air

Schuyler is on her fourth wardrobe change of the day when she rides into the parking lot of Teller-Morrow at the end of her first eight-hour shift. The sun is beginning to set low as she kills the engine of her V-rod and runs inside the bar shrugging her kutte over a plain black T-shirt as she goes.

Every member of the club, including two new faces she has yet to meet, are once again tossing their phones into a box and stepping over the threshold into the chapel for a mandatory meeting. As she approaches the box she notices the prospect standing behind the bar, busying his hands by cleaning glasses and looking disheartened as he watches members disappear into the room he is prohibited to enter while church is taking place. Clay is standing beside the chapel doors overseeing those who enter making sure they empty their pockets beforehand. He acknowledges Schuyler as she walks in pleased that she avoided being late.

Schuyler removes her iPhone from a jean pocket and places it on top of a growing stack of flip phones that are most certainly meant to be disposable. She's amused to see she is the only one who owns a modern cell phone.

Tig stalks up behind her, quick to notice the stark contrast between her phone and everyone else's. "What the hell are you doing bringing that damn thing in here."

"Take it easy." Schuyler calmly pulls out her own flip phone from a different pocket of her jeans. She makes a show of placing it in the box next to the smart phone which if turned off to signal to everyone watching that she has a burner and thus is not a security risk. "Why waste data on club shit?"

Schuyler enters, taking in the chapel at large. Unlike the night of her patching, the table is crowded on every side. An additional seat has been added to accommodate the extra bodies that is pulled up to a corner beside Piney. The men are mingling amongst themselves and a few have a cigarette or blunt balanced between their fingers. Everyone is too distracted to notice the face that is out of place. The only seats left empty are at the head of the table. Deciding it best to sit as far from the Presidential seat as possible in respect of the hierarchy Schuyler walks to the polar opposite end of the slab of redwood.

Schuyler grabs a seat that is pushed out of the way against the back wall and shoves it up to the table filling in the remaining corner beside Piney. The seat is next to Juice who thoughtfully shifts his own chair to make room for the new comer. He is quick to say hello when she sits down and is greeted in return. His action not going unnoticed by the outsider. Piney is kind enough to introduce her to those she has yet to acquaint. Opie, a staggering 6'4" wearing a dark SOA beanie with facial hair like that of a lumberjack, is Piney's son sitting across the table from herself. And Happy, a patch brother from the Washington charter, fills in the other corner. Names are exchanged, and hands shaken, each creating a clapping sound that rings out above the chatter. Piney offers Schuyler his own blunt which she politely declines. She settles against the wooden backrest, spreading her legs wide, establishing that it will be her seat for the foreseeable future.

While pleasantries take place, Tig and Clay join the room. Tig pulls his chair out from the table but instead of taking a seat decides to stare down Schuyler from across the room. Rather than allow Tig to start an argument, Chibs grabs him by the wrist and pulls him the rest of the way into his seat. "Easy brother. She's already here. May as well sit with us." Chibs acknowledges Schuyler from across the table, rather pleasantly surprised by how easily the woman seems to continue to get under Tig's usually thick skin.

Clay shuts the double doors firmly behind himself and calmly approaches his seat evidently in no rush. Once comfortable his eyes land evenly on Schuyler and he waits.

Schuyler scoffs, but speaks plainly. "I haven't sat away from the table since I was twenty years old. With all do respect, it ain't gonna happen chief."

Chibs lets out a boisterous laugh in response to the woman who seems to be taking on the President at her first meeting. Jackson and Bobby are more successful to hide their joy. Piney elbows, a look akin to proud flashing across his wrinkled face, as the rest of the table grins from ear to ear awaiting Clay's response. Schuyler returns his gaze as if she holds all the cards while simultaneously knowing that she would move the chair and even leave the meeting if she was asked to do so out of respect for her new President's authority.

"Fair enough." His hand gravitates towards the gavel slamming the piece of wood against its stand without breaking eye contact. He takes a moment to himself to look around the table that is packed to capacity and commences the meeting with a question. "What's the Nords roster looking like these days?"

Bobby has an answer. "Fifteen, sixteen guys. Couple of new kids breaking in. Same extreme hate shit."

Juice includes, "Still got meth labs outside of Lodi. Selling mostly to truckers."

Jackson asks between drags on his cigarette, "Think they stepping up?"

Clay replies, "Only two things feel good in the joint: that's jerking off and thinking about all the shit you're gonna do when you get out. Darby's been in there for three years. I just want to make sure all his big-shot dreams ended up in his cum rag and not on his to-do list." Laughter rises above the table and evaporates into the ceiling. "Bobby tells me you payed his guy a visit. Work your shit out?" Jackson doesn't respond, rather he looks as if he is biting back rage and is unable to. "How's his guy doing?"

Juice, the youngest at the table in charge of handling all of the crew's technological needs who is able to access hospital data bases, again has an answer. "Fractured cheek, broken nose, left nut," his hand raises, "swinging solo."

Chibs starts a drum roll with his hands on the table directed towards Jackson as he proclaims, "Yes, it was beautiful!"

Schuyler, having been at the clinic all day and having only a vague idea of who the Nords are, is trying to play catch up as she loosely follows the conversation. She settles for joining in by slapping her hands on the table until the excitement of Jackson's assumed victory against a rival ends abruptly by his own cold tone. "Yeah, guy's lucky to be breathin'."

"No, you're lucky he's breathing. Darby's gonna to want a sit down to smooth things over." Clay briskly moves on to the next topic of discussion. "Can we expect any help from up north?"

Happy responds in a very serious tone. "Tacoma can help with replacing the Glocks, but transport would take time. There's no M4's anywhere. Washington, Oregon, Nevada. Nobody's got stock."

Jackson steps in for reassurance. "We'll have all the Mayan intel by the morning. We'll get our guns back."  
Clay states firmly, "Oh yeah we will…Schuyler," Schuyler's eyes dart from her hands in her lap up to the front of the table surprised to hear her name. "Elvis has got a gig this weekend. I want you with us when we retrieve our guns from the Mayans. See how SAMCRO handles external threats. It'll be a nightop, so I trust it won't interfere with your personal affairs."

"That's a nonissue on my end. I look forward to it."

Clay's voice is very stern when he turns to question Opie. "Op, with Bobby gone we need you there to rig the pyro. First thing coming out of the joint. Up for it?"

"Absolutely," Opie speaks around the weed in his mouth. His hesitant expression is unconvincing. "Anything for the club."

"We're glad to have you. Bobby, I want you to take the prospect. Don't need him mucking up a clean job." The secretary grunts an affirmative. "Anything else?"

Piney, stuttering, speaks openly. "Yeah, I, I, just wanted to say to Jackson on a club level. Sons of Anarchy: Redwood Original, is here for you. Your father would be proud of the man you've become. You know? Every time I see you sitting at this table, well, I, I do a double take."

Opie leans over to his old man. "'s probably just the weed pop."

Everyone shares a laugh as Piney coughs through a laugh of his own. "Probably. Yeah, I bet it is…Anyway, whatever you need son. It's yours."

Jackson is humble with his reply, making sure to look to Schuyler to include her in his statement. "Thanks, Piney. Thanks guys."

"Meeting adjourned." The gavel reunites with its stand.

Everyone stands from their chairs and files out of the chapel. Jackson makes his way over to Schuyler to catch her up on all club business she has missed during the day sure no one else is going to think twice about offering to do so themselves. "Hey, that new patch is looking good on you."

Schuyler moves slowly, intending to follow everyone else as they slowly migrates throughout the property. She was told she should stick around after the meeting because a party is being thrown and it would be another chance for her to socialize with the club. "Perfect fit don't you think? Do you mind me asking what Piney was getting so 'gloom and doom' about?"

"No, uh. My ex-wife just had our baby boy."

"That is some pretty terrible news."

"Yeah…she's a junkie." Jackson looks ashamed. "I didn't know it before, but she was shooting crank the last few weeks. He's ten weeks premature sitting up in the NICU. He ain't doing so well…"

"Shit man. I'm sorry. What the hell are you doing here?"

Jackson pauses as if unsure how to answer the question. He offers the same response he has given to everyone else who has asked him that same question since his son was delivered by emergency c-section this morning. "This is where I'm suppose to be. Are you going to let me download you or not?"

"Sure," Schuyler's smile is reassuring, "but only if you tell me the story about how you beat the ball sac off of some Nazi-wannabe."

"Asshole. Found out he was the scumbag dealing to my ex."

"No kidding? You should've killed him."

The two companions leave the chapel to join the others who are now scattered about the bar. Schuyler naturally gravitates towards the pool table to retrieve her cell phones as she continues to listen to Jackson's spiel about The Mayans MC, a business competitor of SAMCRO for many years, who were responsible for burning down the warehouse. The conversation is cut short however, by Clay's loud words, demanding, "What the hell is that smell?"

A response is heard, "I smell it too." Everyone in the room searches for the origin of the rancid order. Clay answers his own question. "It's coming from that box."

"What's in it," Bobby asks as he drags it out from underneath the pool table to open it. "What the hell?"

From the box he pulls out what appears to be a deer head, cut off at the base of its neck dripping blood, by its antlers. Everyone's faces screw up in disgust as the smell of decomposing meat becomes more prominent and Jackson informs Schuyler, "A client of the shop hit it this morning. I told Sack to deal with it."

At the same time, the prospect pushes through the crowd surrounding the box to claim the deer head. "That's mine!"

Bobby, repulsed, questions the boy. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"Nah," he replies sincerely. "I, uh, thought, maybe, you know like as a surprise we could, uh mount it in the clubhouse. Like on the wall."

"It's got to be stuffed and treated you idiot," Jackson insults.

"Yeah. I know that, but um. You know, stuffed with what?"

"Hey Sky," Jackson consciously addresses her with the name she had asked to be called. The nickname has the effect of making him feel familiar with her and she doesn't reject to its use. "Think you can help him out?"

Schuyler locks eyes with the prospect replying harshly as to make a point. "I'm a doctor not a taxidermist. And the damn things expired. Get rid of it like you should have done in the first-place jackass."

Schuyler stalks off to retrieve a drink from the bar leaving the men who are present to marvel at her take charge attitude and laugh at the prospect's expense. "You heard the lady. Get to it Prospect."

Half an hour later the party is in full swing. Music is blaring loudly over staged speakers and beer is being passed out by the keg. Some of the garage employees are grilling up burgers and scantily clad women are draping themselves over any man that will take them. Nearly a hundred bodies, most who are regulars, are attending yet another one of the frequently held parties at TM. All distant friends, honorary family members, or cliental of the well-established club looking for entertainment.

The main event tonight is a boxing ring. Anyone brave enough to step in is allowed to fight. The current contenders are Tig and Happy, who seem to be an even match for each other, fighting for sport rather than to remove one another from the four-post ring.

Schuyler stands in-between Jackson and Piney in a lineup against the length of the ring watching as the fight commences.

Though this is supposed to be a time of relaxation club business is once again brought up casually in conversation.

"Did Rosin track down any real estate for the rebuild?" Bobby curiously asks.

"Ten acres for sale up north eighty-four. A stretch of industry, paint factories, container yards," Clay inform, speaking so that the whole group can hear over the clamor. He pauses in his explanation to shout in the direction of the fight to no one man in particular, "Kick his ass!"

Piney offers approval. "With all the trucking and supplies it'll look like business as usually when we move in."

Jackson has a look on his face as if he is pondering something he hasn't before. "What'd happen if we didn't rebuild?"

The question proposed draws everyone's attention away from the fight and directs it towards the club's Vice President.

Schuyler, seriously considering the proposal, is the first to offer feedback. "A lot of people would be out a paycheck. Not to mention any connections the club has. We'd have to find another way to earn. It'd have to be a fast turn around and the profit would have to be even greater to rule a majority."

"We could take the land profit from the warehouse and put it into something else?" Jackson explains only to be met by concerned faces questioning his motives. "Hey, I'm just thinking about what's best long term. We got heat with the Mayans. The warehouse exploding has got ATF crawling up our ass. Might be time to start looking at other ways to earn."

Clay, appearing even more concerned than the rest, looks to his secretary for assurance before responding in a deflective tone. "There's a lot of shit up in the air right now. We'll figure out what the next move is…" Turning his attention back to the ring, he instructs Bobby, "Break that shit up."

Bobby pulls himself onto the mattress. He ducks under the ropes only to move in between Tig and Happy who have been continuously been exchanging brutal punches. When he is able to get their attention without receiving a fist to his own person the two begin to laugh and hug each other tightly to show that there is no bad blood between them. When they separate, Tig rounds on the audience with the intent of finding his next victim. "Alright SAMTEX. Your turn. I'll even let you get in the first swing. I won't make the offer again."

"That's my cue." Schuyler pats Jackson on the back as a means to say goodbye and leaves the group without another word. If Tig challenges her as she walks to her bike the sound is drowned out by the bustling party goers. She pulls the headphones out from inside her jacket and plugs them into her phone for the ride back home.

The next morning Schuyler is woken up by another text on her burner with a single address on its small screen. A meeting is set for SAMCRO to meet with Darby, the leader of the of a local Arian group who has been known to cause trouble in Charming almost as long as the MC itself has been established. The plan is to meet in a diner on main street to keep everyone calm and prevent a fight from breaking out. Schuyler has been invited to observe the sit down between the two groups.

Schuyler is the last to arrive at the small parking lot outside the establishment. She removes her helmet but decides to keep her hair pulled back and her sunglasses over her eyes. This meeting is about establishing dominance and setting boundaries for an adjacent group. She doesn't intend to be the cause of any distractions today. Instantly upon arrival, she realizes that a pattern is quickly forming. Each time she has been called to action she has been met by the leaders of SAMCRO. These are trial runs. A way for them to observe her actions and gage the level of pressure she is able to withstand.

Two of Darby's men covered in Arian Brotherhood ink are posted outside glaring at the SOA members as they enter. Another is sat beside him squeezed into the window seat of a booth. Jackson enters as soon as he sees Schuyler pull up and he slides into the booth opposite Darby and his right hand. Clay sits next to Jackson to face Darby head on. Schuyler strategically plants herself at the table behind Darby with her legs propped up on the seat in front of her. Her eyes fix on a young waitress with her red hair tied back in a ponytail as she wanders about waiting tables. Tig sits across from Schuyler with his back to the opposition ready to act if the situation takes a turn for the worse. The position also affords him to keep his eyes on the newcomer who offers him a purposefully strained smile in greeting. Bobby is by himself in the seat behind Jackson, not too subtly staring Darby down over his shoulder in an attempt to looking menacing.

"A little something for your guy Darby," Clay starts off as Jackson slides over a piece to Darby's backup.

"That's some serious iron. He'll like that. Thank you." Darby sounds as if he is in a rush to get the words out.

Jackson is equally as quick. "Figured we give him something that had some balls."

Clay ignores the comment. Instead he continues the conversation with a smug air about him. "I know what it's like running a crew. Sometimes you got to do something without thinking things through."

"My guys are thinking just fine."

"They thinking when they sold crank to my pregnant ex?" Jackson spits through gritted teeth.

"That was unfortunate," Darby's voice almost sounds sincere. "How's your little family doing anyway?"

"Uh oh," Schuyler murmurs under her breath.

In the next moment Jackson is reaching across the table scuffling with Darby. The fight lasts all of fifteen seconds with Tig wrapping his arms around Darby's second to keep him from injuring Jackson and Bobby pulling Jackson back into his seat. Darby, untouched due to his protective human shield, smiles the entire time. Proud of how easily he was able to make SAMCRO's second in command react. The fight, however, doesn't prevent him from hearing a voice outside the group respond to the fight before it even occurred. Though raspy it was still higher in pitch than those of the men speaking and he knows it didn't come from a casual observer. He refrains himself from turning to find the source but keeps what was obviously a woman's voice in mind with the intention of finding the source later.

"Alright, alright. Everybody contain your shit. Are you done?" Clay's question is answered by Jackson who mouths an affirmative reply. He turns to look up and down the length of the diner addressing the other patrons. "Sorry folks. Go back to your corndogs. Won't happen again."

Schuyler, sure that her presence has been detected, addresses a family whose breakfast had been interrupted in a hushed tone. "Our bad. Won't be a problem again."

Darby renews the conversation. "I made sure the Brotherhood had Opie's back every minute he was in Chino and you know that."

"Yeah. I know how it works inside Darby. Question is: you remember how it works outside?"

Darby's right hand speaks. "A lot changes in three years."

"A lot stays the same." Clay clears his throat. "Nothing happens in Charming that we don't control or get a piece of."

Bobby makes eye contact with Darby over his should. "If we wanted a meth trade, we'd have one."

"We don't," Jackson growls.

"You know the rules Darby," Clay states. The use of the man's name intended to establish mutual respect. "Cook all the crank you want along the border, but you do not deal in Charming."

"You know we ain't the only cook shop in town. The devil wants in he'll get in."

"Then you've got your work cut out for ya. Because the next time the devil crosses the border," Clay's tone is threatening as he leans forward to get right in Darby's face, "I'm coming after you. And next time I won't send a 357 as a get-well gift."

Darby lets the information sink in. His face shifts into a smile. "There's no need to make threats brother. Me and my boys have always managed to make things work with SAMCRO."

"Good. Let's keep it that way." Clay moves fast, stomping towards the exit of the restaurant without another word.

Before Jackson leaves he gets up from the table to tower over the two men still squished into the booth. He pulls out his wallet by its chain and makes a show of paying their tab. "Milk and cookie on us."  
Bobby promptly follows leaving Tig and Schuyler to scoot out of their own table. Schuyler attempts to make a break for the door but isn't quick enough to avoid Darby who calls after her.

"My, my, my. Do my eyes deceive me? I thought I heard an angel's voice. They must've done a good job at hiding you because I don't believe we've met. My name is Earnest Darby."

Schuyler plasters her brightest smile across her face as she rotates on her heels. Darby approaches, closing the gap until Schuyler is toeing with the leader of the Arians.  
"You caught me! My name is Schuyler," she replies sweetly. She removes her sunglasses to bat her long, dark eyelashes at the older gentleman. She sticks out her hand in greeting but quickly retracts it upon delivering the line: "En chante. Or I'm sorry. Is that, too, exotic for you?" She's not subtle when she eyes the Swastika tattoo blatantly visible above the lining of the man's white wifebeater.

"Not at all," Darby's grin is feral as he takes her hand. "You're a quick one aren't you? Ow, firm grip you got there."

"Must be a force of habit. I get a lot of practice," Schuyler winks.

"I don't mind that…"

Tig, who remained in the diner when he heard Darby address Schuyler, interrupts the introduction which is turning a little too friendly. "Alright, come on Schuyler. Stop flirting with the neo-Nazi."

Schuyler pretends to pout as she releases Darby's hand. She steps backwards towards the only exit. "I suppose I'll be seeing you around Darby."

"Call me Earnest. I insist. I'll look forward to it." Darby dismisses her with a ridiculing wave.

"We don't always get what we want," Schuyler grumbles, turning her back on the Nord leader. "Asshole."

Several hours later Jackson finds himself alone in the clubhouse. He has just returned from Opie's house with the bag containing enough pyrotechnics to level the plant where the Mayans, thanks to Juice, were discovered to be keeping the artillery that they had stolen from the MC. After seeing the argument that transpired between Opie and his wife Donna over Opie again involving himself in club business, Jackson decided to cover for his friend and handle the rigging of the explosives himself. He's readies himself for the job in ten minutes flat. Underneath his normal gear he straps on a bullet proof vest as an added precaution preparing for the worst.

Now down a man, and relying on a fill in for the pyrotechnics, the group is in need of the extra helping hand. Jackson makes sure to call Schuyler directly as to give her a heads up, hoping that she doesn't have an excuse and need to back out of her first job when Opie already had.

The burner in his hand rings once, then twice and is picked up on the other end. "Yeah."

"Mayan intel came through. Are you still on for tonight? Opie's kid got hurt, so Ima need the back up."

"I just got off," Schuyler's voice is low in her attempts to whisper. She's evidently still at the clinic and likely surrounded by others. "Where?"

"We're taking the highway outta town. Should pass the clinic."

"I'll be there." The line is dropped when Schuyler hangs up. Jackson appreciates that she was willing to answer her phone even when fulfilling her duties elsewhere. Jackson stuffs his prepay away and turns to look himself over once in the mirror. He pulls his kutte more tightly around his form which has the effect of making him feel secure and he jogs outside to mount his bike.

After a few minutes alone on the road he finds himself at a stop sign. Clay rounds a corner to pull up beside him. He notices a person is blatantly missing. "Where's Op?"

The two of them wearing sunglasses makes it easier for Jackson to look Clay in the eye and lie. He raises his voice to speak to Clay over the rumble of the bikes' engines. "Kid got hurt. Had to take her to the hospital. Got the bag; I can make it work." Clay is clearly unconvinced. Knowing Opie had his doubts of reentering alongside the club, the timing seems a little too convenient. "It's all good brother." Rather than waste time by arguing Clay instead speeds through the four-way intersection without a glance for traffic or pedestrians that could have been in front of him. Jackson looks both ways and continues a car length behind Clay. As they drive they are joined by an additional member every few blocks before the group merges onto the highway that will lead them out of town towards one of the Mayans lesser known safe-houses.

The bikes drift gently following the bend of the concrete as they approach the offramp exiting the clinic. Jackson gradually decreases his speed until he is cruising at five miles under the posted speed limit subtly slowing the group's progression.

Meanwhile, Schuyler has been idling in the shoulder smoking a cigarette for no longer than a minute when she hears the approach of the motorcade. The wind is in her favor as it carries the sound towards her. She has enough time to stamp out the tube with her heel and right her bike as the last man in the lineup passes her. She falls in line at the back of the company and Clay makes a point accelerate beyond the posted speed limit. She naturally fills the position of drag and gives a nod to Juice who glances back at her. The motion of his hand, which barley leaves the clutch, mimics that of a wave.  
Jackson was careful to avoid seeking Schuyler out when passing the clinic but finds her in his side mirror after she exits the highway at break neck speed to keep pace with the group.

Driving a few miles outside of city limits the group pulls off to the side of the road. The six of them pile into a black van that had been posted there earlier in the day by the prospect and Jackson drives it the remaining two miles to their destination. A clever way to avoid leaving motorcycle tracks at the scene of the crime.

"Couldn't we just hop the fence? It'd be a hell of a lot quicker than this," Schuyler suggests, bored of watching a hole form in the side of a chain link fence one barb at a time.

Chibs happens to be the one using the bolt cutters to create an entrance into the Mayan's compound big enough for himself to step through. "Don't let me stop you. Ima keep at this."

Juice is first to follow the Scotsman through the fence line. He gravitates towards an electrical box which he promptly destroys with an axe knocking out the plants self-sustaining power system for the added coverage of darkness and to kill any alarms that may have been rigged. It doesn't take long for the group to find the backdoor to the warehouse. Chibs and Tig form a duel battering-ram causing the not too securely locked door to fly clear off its hinges with both of them landing on top of the door falling flat on the floor in their efforts. "Jesus!"

Flashlights and knives appear in each hand as the team moves quickly from room to room cutting open each and every box they encounter. They are none too careful when shoveling out the contents they find inside. They successfully clear two rooms with no luck of their missing hardware before Schuyler comes upon a wooden crate perched on top a workbench. With force, she's able to leverage the box open with a crowbar and is pleased with the contents she finds inside. Strings of brown paper serving as packing material for a thin layer of cylindric glass candles. Colorful religious symbols printed on each sharing in a common theme. "Wait to lean into a stereotype."

Across the room Jackson cracks open a similar crate. He pushes through the top layer and pulls out one of the missing M4 assault rifles. Clay passes over him while shining his flashlight inside the chest. "Praise Jesus, it's a miracle."

Schuyler dips her hand deep into the crate pulling out a Glock. "It's just what I wanted!"

"And I've got the rest over here," Chibs chimes. He is looking into two more boxes of similar artillery that he himself had opened.

"Get the guns in the van," Clay barks his orders. "Wire this shithole up."

Jackson removes the duffle bag from his back to withdraw over a dozen sticks of dynamite and a homemade detonator. He moves to the center of the room to fiddle with wires in an attempt to copy the actions he has observed Opie perform under similar circumstances. Schuyler removes the candles from her crate to lighten the load, closes the lid tight, and sets about doing the same for the chest that Jackson left behind. Chibs perceives her intentions for doing so and instructs Juice to copy her actions with a box in front of him. Chibs kneels down to do the very same with a box of his own. When the crates are ready to move, Juice approaches Schuyler and lifts one end of the crate off the floor. "Help me out, will ya? Careful, lift with your knees."

She takes the other end and heaves it off the ground with minimal strain. "Worry about your own knees. Seeing as how you're walking backwards into a door frame." Juice heeds her warning with a grin and the two end up moving two chests outside together. They take turns with Chibs who helps Tig do the same with two boxes of their own.

When the weapons are stacked neatly in the van with room left for the loaders to ride next to them, Schuyler reenters the building to check on Jackson's progress. "Guns are loaded. Guys are ready to move when you are."

Jackson is busy dialing a number into his burner evidently having missed a crucial step in the pyrogenic process.

The rest of the moving crew joins her and Juice, anxious to leave, demands, "What's the hold up?"

While everyone is standing around waiting for Opie to pick up Jackson's call Tig spots movement outside the building. Walking to the window facing the compound's main entrance he observes an old red pickup pull up to the gated entrance. Two men jump out of the truck's bed to open the sliding gate allowing for the truck to drive through. Another man emerges from the cab to join them in opening a storage unit just inside the compound while the truck idles next to them with a fourth man sitting behind the wheel waiting patiently while the rest work. It is clear that the men are here to complete a job of their own and won't be leaving for quite some time. Tig is quick to inform the group, "We got company."

Forming a plan quickly, Clay again lays out orders to be followed. "Gotta be Mayans. Get the van out of sight. Lay low. You, with me."

Tig follows suit by leading Juice and Chibs outside to hide the van from view. Jackson gives up trying to reach the man on the other end of the line and stashes his phone away. It's clear that he has made an error in judgement having decided he could attempt this task on his own and knows that Clay is disappointed. He also knows better than to argue when Clay asks for Jackson to join him. Instead he refers to Schuyler. "Stick with us."

"Lead the way."

The new group of three draw their guns nearly in unison. With careful footsteps, they exit the building scaling around the outside until they are facing the truck head on from behind a pile of precariously stacked scrap metals. Clay, leading from the position of point, voices his dissatisfaction. "Shit. We should have been long gone by now."

Jackson attempts to reason with him. "We've got the iron. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Hey, I came to send a message," Clay reminds Jackson sternly. "Or have you forgotten? Those two wetbacks see that busted down door they'll call for backup."

Clay moves as though he is going to step out from behind the makeshift barrier only to be stopped by Jackson's hand. "Blowin' shit up is one thing. If we off these guys it could trigger something that runs out of control."

"That's the cost of your mistake. Got a problem with making it right?"

Jackson reluctantly shoves his gun in the waistline of his jeans. "I'll draw them to the dumpster. Cover me."

Jackson runs past Clay to enter the truck's field of view. Without being spotted, he picks a blanket off a pile of forgotten lumber using it to cover most of his face and torso. Then he staggers towards the headlights of the truck loudly singing a drinking song with his words slurring to appear drunk to gain the men's attention. Two Hispanics who abandoned the truck notice Jackson and approach. "Hey Bandito…"

Schuyler sniggers at Jackson's quick idea of a distraction. "Not as dumb as he looks."

"The job's not done yet."

"…Tell your dirt bag buddies, if they camp out here, they'll get some of this."

One of the men who approached Jackson swings hard at him clocking him square in the jaw. Jackson reels only to draw his gun. He returns a powerful blow breaking the man's nose with the butt of his gun. The blanket falls to the ground and he points his weapon at the two Hispanics in front of him. Clay charges, shoving his own weapon into the neck of the second man preventing him raising his own piece. Schuyler follows the men's lead and positions herself several feet away from the group between Jackson and the three other bodies where she can effectively survey the scene with her gun trained towards the Mayans.

"No bang, bang, por favor," Clay requests. The man lowers his hands in surrender. Clay disarms him while parroting the first man's words back to him as he shoves the second several paces forward. "Tell your dirtbag buddies, if they steal from SAMCRO, they get some of this."

Clay shoots the second man in the throat from point blank range and watches as he drops to his knees left to bleed to death.

Without warning, as if reacting to the gunshot, the truck's engine reeves to life. The driver inside attempts to pull through the lot by making a U-turn and escape the scene. Clay raises his gun towards the vehicle and follows its path in the air looking down the sight. However, there is no need to do so. Tig appears, seemingly out of nowhere, shouting, "I got 'em." He runs out into the open and jumps into the bed of the moving vehicle. He throws himself over the tailgate, kneels in the bed, and shots three bullets through the back window. One was used to break through the glass while the other two burrow into the drivers head. He braces for impact as the vehicle connects with the side of a building. The truck rebounds off the wall with the force of the impact and stops on its own. He proceeds to jump out of the bed to check the cab for survivors, but all he finds is the man he shot and one of the missing M4s, fully loaded. He walks away uninjured to place the assault rifle in Clay's hand.

"Holy shit."

The statement is spoken by Juice who appears beside Schuyler a moment later responding to the sound of gunfire.

Two men are now dead leaving one who remains with his nose bleeding from Jackson's assault. Neither Jackson's eyes nor his gun stray from the Mayan's form as he talks out of the side of his mouth to address Juice. "Go check the back. Make sure that's all of them."

Clay takes the gun from Tig and gestures with it to send him with Juice as backup. "He's all yours." Clay hovers his finger over the trigger of the automatic. His eyes fix on Jackson. It isn't a request.  
Jackson steps forward pushing the man onto his knees. The man clasps his hands together tightly, closes his eyes, and begins to pray in Spanish. Jackson looks down on him through the sight of his gun only to take pause. The pause stretches on much longer than either Clay or Schuyler expect it to.

Schuyler is ready to lower her own gun until, due to her vantage point, catches sight of a man creeping up from the side of the building the trio had previously emerged from. He trains his gun on Jackson's exposed abdomen due to the kneeling man's position and readies to fire. Without hesitation Schuyler hovers over her target tracking him and fires a single shot that brings the man to the ground instantaneously. The bullet enters one side of his head and exits the other leaving blood speckles on the surfaces behind him.

When she returns her attention to the scene at hand she is met with Jackson's face of disbelief. "Sorry. Was me saving your life causing too much of a distraction? Please continue. Unless you'd rather I take care of him?"

"No," And Clay is definitive. "You'll get your chance to prove yourself. This one is on Jax."

The short exchange is just enough of a distraction to lead the Mayan on the ground to pull his gun from his jeans with the intent to fire. Clay, however, is much quicker to respond with his M4 already in hand. He lodges three casings into the man's abdomen sending him to the ground withering and struggling for air.

"Finish him!"

Jackson, a look of consideration on his young face, reluctantly raises his gun again. This time he aims directly at the suffering man's head. The man on the ground pants for a moment, twitches twice, and his body goes limp, dead in the dirt where he fell.

Jackson lowers his gun for a final time and sighs in what appears to be relief. "It's finished."

Schuyler holsters her own gun, confused as to why her new V.P would be so hesitant, but glad that the danger is passed. The other half of the group, now including Chibs who is returning from his watch of the van, runs into the clearing of the compound with Chibs hollering all the way. "Ahh, Mary Mother of Christ. I leave you bad boys alone for two minutes and everything turns to shit!"

"Don't forget bullseye," Clay remarks.

Schuyler crosses her arms, tucks her hands under her armpits, and rests her thumbs on top of her chest. "Just doing what I was brought here to do. Cover Jax's ass apparently."

"You got the job done. Nice work," Clay somehow manages to make the compliment to the woman also sound like a backhanded insult to Jackson as he is evidently questioning the man's devotion at this time, even when in front of the other members.

"Clay!" Tig hollers. He is crouching over the body that Schuyler is responsible for. "Come look at this."

When the group crowds around the corpse Jackson is the first to speak. Looking down on the body that is distinctly different than the others due to its white skin and Arian ink he notes, "Darby's guy."

Clay muses, "Looks like Darby did make some new friends in Chino."

Tig can't restrain himself from commenting, "White boy musta sucked a lot of brown dick."

Schuyler's tone is completely serious. "Nords teaming up with color can only mean bad news."

Jackson explains what it means. "Means doubling their numbers, access to guns…"

Clay adds, "And a common enemy. Us."

Jackson confirms his train of thought. "Darby wants Charming."

Without any warning Clay turns the mouth of the gun to the body and mows through it scaring Jackson nearly out of his skin in the process. "There goes the neighborhood."  
The group returns to the warehouse intent on getting it to blow up one way or another. They work together in teams for the next half hour trying to finish as quickly as possible to avoid any more Mayans who may arrive during the night. The first group composed of Chibs, Tig, and Juice back the truck into a garage attached to the warehouse. They pack all three of the Hispanics into the cab and place the Arian face down in the bed with his pants pushed to his knees. They arrange a sizeable number of explosives in precarious positions about the truck including a stick of dynamite that Tig thought best to place in between the corpse's ass cheeks. Gasoline is poured on the truck for good measure.

Clay wonders off on his own to empty nearly half a dozen gallons of gasoline found inside the compound into strategic holes of the plant to ensure that every corner of the property will eventually catch fire. Jackson returns to his original task. Draping wires in the rafters and leaving a trail of dynamite about the main room of the warehouse where the guns were originally found. Because Jackson is unable to correctly rig the pyrotechnics for them to self-implode, Schuyler is left walking behind Jackson, placing the candles that she unpacked from the crates, wherever he goes. While everyone is set about finishing their tasks Schuyler decides that talking would be the best way to pass the time. She wants to question Jackson about the concerning actions she witnessed him display outside and knows she is more likely to get an honest answer when the two are alone.

She starts by asking him a very simple question. "How many?"

"You talking to me?"

She stops walking still holding a candle in each hand. Jackson has made almost no effort to conceal the stress he has felt over the events of the last few days as they seem to be piling up over his head. The most recent event regarding his son who is lying in an artificially created habitation in a hospital room while his father commits arson. Tonight, she has witnessed that stress start to affect his work and that of those around him. "How many times have you pulled the trigger?"

"Any time I need to. Why?"

Schuyler is patient as she places the candles a foot apart to finish the trail. Distancing herself from Jackson, she returns to the center of the room. There she begins to construct a three-foot-high pyramid with the left-over candles. She does this with the conscious intention of reframing from making Jackson feel cornered and allows him to answer her question in his own time. "How many times has it meant something?"

Jackson stills. This is not be the first conversation of a similar nature he has had in the last twenty-four hours. "If you're asking for me to put a number to how many people I've killed that's kind of a personal question. How many have you killed."

"Two dozen. At least."

"Have they all been a cause of you trying to prove something?" Jackson asks, referring to the body that she created which men outside are preparing to dispose of.

"If you're referring to my actions which saved your ass from getting shot I will gladly say you are welcome. And I would have put down the second if Clay hadn't gotten to him first. We both know he wasn't leaving till they were all dead. If the poor bastard hadn't acted we would still be sitting in that yard all night waiting for you to make a decision."

"It didn't feel right this time. Not now," Jackson says, and it sounds like a confession. His hands continue his work as if on their own accord. His mind wanders to the infant, to his kid, who he has yet to - no - refused, to visit in the hospital. His only view of his son since he was born less than two days ago has behind a plate of glass. "Maybe Clay's right. That I'm tripping this guilt shit over my kid."

"I didn't think that at all." Schuyler's hands work fluidly in unison to stack the cylinders while she is still able to occasionally meet Jackson with honest eyes. "It could be for a million reasons. With everything that's been going on, concerning the business, your ex resurfacing. I know my patching in hasn't been easy on anyone. It's a lot for anyone to handle. The fact that it all happened at once, it's not surprising you're rattled."

Jackson looks up to Schuyler with a genuine look of surprise. After the last forty-eight hours of nonstop harassment and with all the people closest to him expecting him to behave as if everything is business as usual, the fact that Schuyler is willing to speak with and understand what he is going through means something to Jackson in this moment. "You know, I never expected it to work with my ex. Wendy, she was just there, after…after everything. I signed the divorce papers over a year ago. We tried to reconcile a couple months back expecting a different result. And now I'm here. Not sure how to continue."

"Hey man, it's the same shit just a different day. You continue the way you always have. Though I'm willing to bet going to see your kid would help to put things into perspective." Jackson's smile is grateful, and he is able to make a decision. He decides that he will go straight to the hospital to see his kid tonight. Schuyler returns his smile and continues to impart her wisdom. "Look whatever it is you can take your time with it to get right. And not wanting to kill isn't a bad trait to live with."

Jackson manages a laugh. "No, it's not. More of us should adopt it."

"We don't kill because we like to. Most of the time we try to avoid it. Maybe you're right that there was another way out of this. But you have to remember something Jackson. We ride in the gray. And we always have a reason. Even if they weren't clear to you, I know Clay had his. He wouldn't have become President if he didn't know how to make the necessary sacrifices."

"No, he did not."

Jackson joins Schuyler in the center of the room to place the last stick of dynamite in the center of a pyramid of candles. Next to it Schuyler sets the final glass cylinder. At this time, everyone else returns from their individual tasks feeling accomplished, though rather tired, and ready to turn in for the night.

Chibs comes back in from the garage spouting off something along the lines of, "The candle's in the cake," as he jogs past the two blondes while somehow finding the energy to laugh in the process.  
Clay silently examines the room. His eyes follow the trails of wires to each station of explosives that has been set up. He nods his approval and grabs a random candle off the floor. Everyone stands around and watches as he pulls a match from a pocket in his vest to light the candle and proclaim, "Let's go home." There are a few mumbled words of agreement before everyone begins to move, a bit faster than previously, towards the exit.

All except for Schuyler. "Hey Clay?" Clay meets her gaze, appearing more weary now than disappointed in how the evening has proceeded, and waits for her to continue. "Can I light it up?"

"I don't see why not," he answers while passing her the glass cylinder. She approaches rather gleefully, the first real expression of happiness she has shown in front of the charter and examines it in her hand. Clay observes her, admiring the genuine smile on her young face at something so simple and a smile of his own forms in response.

"Oh. Do you, want a head start before I get this party started?" She asks Clay. She projects genuine concern in her voice as she eyes the oldest member present. Decades lay between them in terms of age and her smile doubles in size, showing her perfectly straight teeth.

"Don't push your luck," he asserts in a deadpan tone as he jogs to catch up with the remaining members who now crowd the door waiting to see the candle role before running with what little energy they each have left to the van parked just past the property's fenced border.

Schuyler roars with laughter; her chest shaking with the force. She turns towards the mountain of flammables that she stacked so carefully and with a near perfect technique, sends the candle rolling towards the stack much like a professional bowler would roll a bowling ball with her right hand without even cracking the fragile glass. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"  
Jackson, being the most athletic, is the first to return to the van returning to the driver's seat. Schuyler being the last out the door makes an effort to catch up with the men in front of her. She pushes into the bodies in front of herself in an attempt to both encourage them to move faster and to protect herself from the blast. Dashing and knocking into each other partially for fun and partially because they are uncoordinated, the group tumbles down the cement driveway and past the fencing, occasionally throwing a glance over their shoulders every once in a while as a total of six individual explosions are set off across the property. The flames rise high, easily capable of being seen for several miles in every direction.

The fire is hot enough to cause a burning sensation to develop against exposed skin even from a distance, but the group continues to laugh as if impervious to harm. Clay reaches the passenger side door and opens it to stand up on the car seat and watch in awe as the flames climb into the night sky. Everyone else piles into the back of the van toppling over one another as they attempt to right themselves on the floor. Tig and Chibs mirror Juice and Schuyler. Tig's left arm rests on Chibs' shoulder as he rubs his hand over his face to wipe away the sweat that is pouring off him caused by the sheer amount of heat radiating from the devastation. Chibs' back connects hard with the side of the van and he pants hard appearing as if he will never move again. Juice continues to stare out the front window of the van as the flames are fueled by the oxygen from the cool night air wiping through the building. Although his entire right side is pressed firmly against Schuyler due to the confined space he shoves her against Clay's seat in an attempt to shoulder her and gain her attention in a friendly manner. "Welcome to the club sister."

Schuyler, voice hoarse from running while inhaling smoke, laughs harshly and shoves Juice's shoulder twice as hard in the opposite direction to communicate without the use of words that she's not feeble in the least. "Thanks brother."

Author's Notes: And so the guns have been successfully retrieved from the Mayans, but surely they won't let the MC get away with it that easily. And with the reveal of multiple groups teaming up to face the SOA, is this just the start of the club's problems?


	4. First Crime Scene

_Previously in TROD:_ Schuyler attended her first church with the Charming boys. We discovered that not only has she killed, but she is willing to kill again to protect those she shares the patch with, even those she has just met. As for Jackson, we learned that his son was born which led him not only to question certain moves made by the club, but to also open up to Schuyler in a really honest way. And, most importantly of all, we learned that we can curse in my take on the story! It was very important to me that I gave Schuyler the first F-bomb. Now, let's see how much trouble the club can get into in this chapter. Enjoy...

Thursday morning a different makeup of members than who had raided the Mayan compound rolls into Lodi with that very same van full of cargo that the group reclaimed just days ago. Tig is driving with both hands gripping the steering wheel and when he passes the sign that welcomes new arrivals he turns the radio off as if canceling the noise will establish a more professional mindset. Clay is beside him in the passenger seat watching as three motorcycles, acting as a buffer between the van and the rest of the world, drift in and out of the side view mirror.

Taking alleyways and backroads the van eventually stops beside three black Escalades. Metal storage units act as a corral to block the expected transaction from any business roads leading back into the center of town.

Clay steps out to meet a slim African American man wearing a purple vertical striped button-down who was being chauffeured. The rest of this man's crew follows, filing out of the SUV's to casually lean on the bonnets to encase the assumed leader in a protective shield.

Each is clearly armed, as is Clay's own crew, but the weapons are hidden on their respective persons within easy reach. Though these men do not have such formal wear like the Sons' kuttes, they are still very much considered to be in a recognizable uniform. The group is color coded. Almost every member is wearing at least one purple item, and many have ink visible to openly show which street gang they belong to. Schuyler takes in these subtle but unmistakable markers as she kills the engine of her bike. She memorizes the symbols and links them to the name "One-Niners" she was previously given to later be able to identify members. Eyes scanning the foreign organization, she dismounts to stand behind the van with Chibs and Piney waiting for the order to unload.

"Laroy," Clay says, offering a hand. His smug grin a permanent fixture on his wrinkled face. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"

Laroy greets Clay in turn as he forcibly pulls the taller man into a one-armed hug. A single, appropriate slap is given to each man's back followed by a downward pump of their elbows in show of mutual respect. "Looks like you pulled through just in time white boy."

"SAMCRO never misses a delivery. Question is: you got my money?"

The crews move in unison. Chibs opens the van to begin unloading the crates as a man with a severely burned face retrieves a black briefcase from Laroy's car and stands beside him for the exchange. Everything appears to be going smoothly. Clay and Laroy continue to banter as their men do their bidding. Schuyler and Chibs are moving the crates from the van to the ground to an open vehicle and guns remain holstered. Yet as time passes Laroy's men start to take notice to the blonde ponytail filing in as part of Clay's moving crew. Then whispers arise, followed by demands.

"Stupid bitch." – "Some gnash…" – "Who brought the entertainment?" – "How much she gonna run me?"

Laroy's ears perk up and his eyes travel over the MC finding Schuyler pulling out the final crate from the van. "Is there somethin' you forgot to tell me?"

Clay remains firm. "I didn't know my club members had to be approved by you."

"Just figured you'd leave the maid at home is all."

Piney, who turns red in the face, jumps down Laroy's throat. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about?"

"I think I'm talking about some white trash two-bit whore coming here thinking she's worth more than a hand job."

By now Schuyler has heard the commotion and drops her end of the chest in the dirt taking Chibs by surprise. While men from both sides stand around bickering, exchanging insults directed towards each other and her, she can't help but roll her eyes. She nonchalantly produces a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, lights it, and draws the smoke into her lungs more than happy to put on a show.

"Goddamn it, apologize Ape!"

"Piney!" Schuyler scolds, disapproving of the slur. Chibs starts beside her not having expected her to yell as Clay and Piney take steps back from Laroy to seek out Schuyler. Her voice returns to a conversational volume as she gestures with the smoke in her hand.

"Piney, Piney…" She steps between both of the older gentlemen pushing them further away from the center of the conversation with the intension of reaching Laroy. "My honors intact, but it won't be if you keep prattling…"

A thumb pulls back the hammer of a hand gun as one of Laroy's men, really a boy likely younger than Schuyler, raises the weapon level with her head. Apparently she had moved too quickly towards his boss for the young man's liking. There's hardly time to react, only Piney manages to draw his gun. Schuyler halts, relaxes her shoulders, and turns just her head towards the boy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees that Piney has raised his weapon and she snaps her fingers around her cigarette pointing to the earth behind her. He reluctantly complies, lowering the weapon, yet still keeping his finger on the trigger.

She addresses the boy directly. "Put that away sweetheart unless you plan on using it."

It's clear that the action was involuntary on the man's part. He seems surprised that Schuyler speaks to him which causes him to realize he has a gun in his hand. His eyes shift to Laroy expecting a physical clue as to how to proceed.

"Don't look at him. Look at me and make a decision."

The boy swallows hard, repositions his feet, but ultimately stashes the gun in the waist line of his jeans.

"See that was the wrong decision. If you plan on sticking around much longer you've got to get right with shooting women," Schuyler says. "You know the Italians, who move through here heading north. They're a little more lenient than your boss. They have women do their smuggling all the time. They'll be stepping on your profit soon and they will not hesitate to protect themselves. Let me tell you something else, I won't hesitate neither. That's just me being straight with you." Schuyler pauses and another man still leaning on a van whistles in her direction in agreement. "Next time think before you show your hand. And if you get far enough to pull your gun you be sure to pull that trigger."

"Shit bro," the same man calls, "you best step back. She just schooled your ass."

Schuyler takes another drag from her cigarette and flashes her hands to show she is unarmed as she resumes her path. Then she aligns herself with Laroy and lowers her hands. She does not make a motion towards her weapons, but her hands hang loosely beside her gun and knives in warning. She makes a conscious effort not to cantor and keep her posture open and relaxed when addressing the leader.

"Listen man," Schuyler takes the cigarette out from her mouth between her thumb and pointer finger. She gestures with it as she talks. "I get it. These guys behind me not telling you I'd be coming. Unprofessional. I don't like being caught off guard either. But I'm going to take responsibility for their mistake. Let me make sure shit like this doesn't happen again."

Schuyler motions between their forms. "We're still good here. And if you don't want to trade with me, that's cool. I'll pack up and nothing needs to be exchanged today. But let me tell you something else. We both know that if you pass on this you're going to have to wait at least two more weeks to pick up more gear that you need this week. And whoever else you buy it from will be selling you half the hardware for twice the cost."

"Twice the cost?" Laroy asks. He is impressed with the woman's courage to approach him and interested in where the conversation seems to be leading.

"Let me make this right. Offer an incentive to move this along and close this deal."

"What did you have in mind?"

Schuyler raises the cigarette to her lips, "2.5%?"

Instantly Laroy's composure shifts. He no longer sees white skin, or soft curves, or long eyelashes speaking to him. Instead he sees dollar signs. "I can work with that."

"Like hell," Tig barks. Piney, on the other hand, laughs so hard he begins to choke.

"Consider it a 'getting to know you' present. I won't even count what you pull."

Clay counters with, "But I will," consenting to the altered price.

Laroy smirks. "We've got a deal."

Schuyler smiles wide as she rests the nicotine between her lips and raises her hand high to clasp hands loudly with Laroy. "And next time you won't be surprised when I roll up."

"I'll expect to see you from now on." Laroy motions towards his man to hand over the briefcase.

"Come on Laroy. Don't go missing me too much. I won't always bare peace offerings." Schuyler takes the bag and spins on her toes. As she walks back to the crate to finish loading Tig glares in her direction. She throws the case in his general direction which he catches with one hand.

"That was some quick thinking. So quick you didn't think to run it by me?" Clay asks.

"Take it out of my cut boss. I ain't gonna starve."

Jackson wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and throws a wrench back into his tool box. He has spent the morning working a shift at TM instead of following through with the Niners' latest shipment. After messing up the pyro, Clay benched him as a sort of minor punishment much to his – and Piney's, whose attendance at such business exchanges has become less frequent - dismay. He's tired of looking down at the same bike and, expecting the group to return, shrugs off his TM shirt to hang it on his work station against the back wall. He engages with other employees who are busy working on their own vehicles as he passes on his way to the office.

Through the window to the garage office he spots a middle-aged woman with raven hair and unnatural blonde highlights hanging just past her shoulders. Wearing knee high leather boots and a blouse with frills where it falls open, clearly unabashedly, revealing a raised scar laying vertical down the center of her chest she is leaning over a mountain of paperwork.

He opens the office door enough to stick his head inside. "Hey mom. Clock me out?"

"There's no way you worked a full shift," Gemma answers looking up from the desk.

"Close enough. I'm going to go see the kid later," he begins only to be distracted by the sound of motorcycles entering the parking lot. He looks past the garage door and sees that Bobby arrives first returning from his personal trip to Tahoe. Behind him a black van enters followed by three more motorcycles that find their places in the lineup.

Gemma places her hands on her wide hips. "Yeah I'll be there. Hey, I still want to do that dinner. Maybe tomorrow? My house at eight."

"I'm going to bring some of the guys if that's okay."

"Course. They know they're always welcome. And make sure to invite the transfer. She's managed to avoid me. I've been so busy with Abel in the hospital. I want to meet her."

Jackson laughs. "She hasn't been avoiding anyone. You'll meet her soon."

Gemma frowns yet the action doesn't seem to detract from her beauty. Instead it looks like a rather natural expression. "She could always introduce herself."

"Nah, she's just as busy as you are. I think you'll like her. She's a lot like you."

"Well at least I know not to trust her."

"Bye mom." Jackson gives a shake of his head in disbelief at his mother's ability to be overbearing despite his age and leaves her to her affairs.

"I've got the good shit!" Bobby exclaims. He is the first to enter and turns a paper bag upside down over a table where Chibs and Half-Sack are already sitting. He is quick to clear the way for the vultures to make their descent. As they file in one right after the other Half-Sack hurries behind the bar to start pulling drinks from the fridge, which members pick up from the counter as they pass. The prospect makes a point to serve the patches and let them have first pick before taking a muffin of his own.

"Food," Schuyler asks, leading the procession into the clubhouse. She examines the muffin without paper wrapping suggesting they are home made. She picks up a second muffin to give to Piney who lands on the first barstool he reaches, clearly tired from the morning's activities. She perches on her own table across from Chibs as the rest of the group disperses randomly about the bar. It seems that Clay and Tig have gotten distracted as Jackson is the last to enter for a time. "Are you feeding us Bobby?"

Piney nods his appreciation to Schuyler as he proclaims, "These muffins go great with tequila Bobby." As if to make a point, he chases his first bite with a shot of liquor he had the prospect pour him.

"Shit's addictive," Chibs says while twirling one in his hand to observe it almost fondly. "Turning me into a fat bastard."

"You could pay me in food; I'd be just as happy." Schuyler says around a bite she took from the pastry like an apple. She does not shy away from speaking with her mouth full, but rather continues to do so. "I don't think I've eaten properly since I landed. Aside from those nachos that were growing. They almost constituted a meal."

The prospect picks up his own muffin on his way to lean against the table beside Schuyler. Subconsciously, just as he would have made a joke at one of his brother's expense, the words spill out of him without having any real reason or malicious intent. "You forget to shower too?"

"You tell me." Schuyler drops the pastry on the table in favor of wrapping her right arm around Half-Sack's neck to bring him down to her level. She is unconcerned with personal space as she wrestles with the boy in an attempt to pry the muffin out of his hand. She succeeds and shoves him towards the exit, taunting him with the sweet.

"Come on, no. I haven't eaten today."

She smiles. "Should have thought about that before you mouthed off. Shouldn't you be in the garage? Go!" He looks dejected but reframes from arguing with the patch member, fearing the punishment that could be dealt, and leaves quickly with his tail tucked between his legs.

Schuyler scoots backwards to perch on the table she claimed with one foot leaving the floor at a time. She keeps the sweet she stole close to her person as she trades it in favor of her own. As she takes another bite, she returns a number of curious gazes spread sporadically throughout the bar room. She replies, "I'll throw it at him later. Bobby, I probably should have asked, but what's in these. Did you just drug me?"

"Nothing but natural sugars and organic flour. None of that processed shit," Bobby replies, pleased with his culinary skills. He sits at the table beside Chibs and opens a beer bottle. "Not that the rest of you give a damn."

"No hash in 'em?" Jackson asks as he sits on a pool table to Schuyler's left taking up the furthest seat from the misshaped circle.

"You know my rule. No bud before noon." Bobby responds by half-heartedly throwing the bottle cap in Jackson's general direction.

The Vice President opens a beer of his own to respond in kind. His throw is a little more forceful to ensure that it reaches it's target. "I don't have that rule."

"They're community muffins Jackson," Schuyler chastises. "I appreciate it Bobby."

"Morning kids!" Clay shouts when he enters the clubhouse with a black bag hanging off one shoulder and Tig hot on his heels. He drops the bag on the table next to the remaining muffins and begins to unpack the contents. "Laroy is giddy about his new assault rifles."

After the Niners left the drop point, Clay and Tig took the time to divide the money into individual envelopes for easier distribution. Schuyler agreed to take a severe pay cut. Not only because she arranged for the altered price, but also because she was not involved in their processing leading up to the guns being stolen.

"I'm all about racial harmony," Chibs remarks when receiving his payment.

"Spend it wisely. It may be a little while before we see any more 'gun green'," Clay states as he throws a blank envelope towards Schuyler who catches it midair. While everyone else rips open their envelope to count the bills inside Schuyler stuffs hers into an inner pocket of her kutte.

Jackson is quick to notice. "You're not gonna count it?"

"It's rude to count it at the dinner table," Schuyler answers in a hushed tone. "Besides, I'm sure I've been shorted on this job. You know, 'since I'm new'."

The share a laugh and it's at this time that Juice emerges from a back room of the bar with information to report. "Clay. Just got a call from my city hall snitch. Hale's got a warrant to search our warehouse."

This gains everyone's attention. Looks are exchanged until ultimately eyes turn to Clay who's surprised by the news. But it's Tig's downcast eyes and worried expression from behind Clay's shoulder that Schuyler is drawn to. "What, why are you making that face?"

"Two bodies on property under our name. That's something you should probably run by me," Schuyler states. She pops her left wrist once and leans forward with her arms crossed on the table.

The group immediately filed into the chapel for a mandated meeting – aside from Piney who excused himself on his own merits and age. After hearing the unsavory news that the local law enforcement would soon make an attempt to spy on the club coupled with Tig's own announcement of evidence that could potentially damn him in particular, Chibs rises from his seat to pace the front of the room with his face emanating frustration. Those at the table share equally in his concern.

Clay rubs a hand down his face. "Guns were more important. Now you know."

Tig sits a little straighter. "Since when is it 'our name'?"

"Since like a week ago. Try to keep up."

She sees the muscles in his shoulders and chest tighten but Chibs turns on him abruptly sparing her Tig's response. Chibs leans over him to emphasize both his presence and his question. "What were you thinking, _brother_?"

Tig responds smoothly, "I was thinking about getting my dick sucked twice."

"I don't care whose dick was where on the night in question," Schuyler interjects. "If I knew about the bodies I would have gladly been the first to tell you lot we needed to move them before PD caught wind."

Bobby attempts to be reasonable. "All anyone can prove is that two extra spicy carnitas swallowed your chum. They died hiding from the fire. You didn't kill anybody."

"It's not about a manslaughter wrap," Schuyler says with a gesture towards the accused. "Tig couldn't keep his hands to himself. His DNA makes our signature on the lease public knowledge."  
Juice includes, "And the ATF will take up permanent residence in our collective rectums."

Clay speaks. "That warehouse sits on county property. Hale is going to have to wait days to get San Joaquin to shake loose a forensic team."

Juice refutes him. "It's a local case. County won't get involved. Hale will burrow a unit from Lodi."

Jackson has an idea. "Hey, Big Otto's sister still works for the ADA in Lodi. Call her, see if there's a forensic team heading this way." Juice promptly leaves without another word.

Clay continues. "I've got to have a talk with Unser. I'll take Tig. Maybe I can convince him to put a leash on his hyperactive deputy."

Jackson shakes his head. "Unser is just waiting for the clock to run out. That old boy is a sitting duck. We have to work around Hale. Find a way in, and soon. Strike first."

Bobby raises his hand. "Before I forget. Uncle Jimmie called. Italians want to place an order. I didn't know what to say."

"Call him back and tell him that they missed the fire sale," Clay retorts. He meets Schuyler's eyes. "Are you going to be up to this? Disposing of innocents just because they took the wrong load at the wrong time?"

Tig chuckles to himself still proud of an act he views as an accomplishment. Chibs puts a hand on him when sitting, looking much like a father reminding his son to mind his manners at the diner table.  
Schuyler eyes the foam insulation on the ceiling. "Would you believe me if I said this wouldn't be the first time? We don't change much between county lines." Bobby and Clay, having been in the club the longest, nod their collective understanding. "Besides," Schuyler's eyes meet Tig's own as if in challenge, "it wouldn't be the first time I had to clean up after a dog."

Juice bursts through the door hard enough that it closes on its own by the time he reaches his seat. Everyone expecting him to bring news turn their attention on the Puerto Rican. Though the group has forgotten about the blatant insult directed towards the Sergeant, it takes every ounce of will Tig can muster to keep from physically reacting above the table. He clutches his hands around the arm rests of his chair as if the death grip is the only thing keeping him in his seat and leaping across the table. Perhaps only those directly beside him can see his knuckles turning white or a vein protruding in his neck. Yet his anger doesn't quite reach his eyes, instead reflecting a level of approval that not even he is able to place.

"I talked to Otto's sister and Lodi forensic team will be here first thing in the morning."

Clay throws his hands up exasperatedly. "And the shit keeps piling on my head. Only one thing is going to stop that Lodi team from getting to our warehouse. And that's a murder in Lodi."  
Tig is almost too eager to agree. While Schuyler and Bobby have their doubts, it is Jackson who speaks out. "I don't know man. Hale's on red alert. Mayans, Nords, everyone is twitchy as hell. It's not a good time to-"

"It's never a good time! But we're talking about protecting Tig here," Clay barks. "And staying out of ATF's cross hairs. We hit the projects. Pick up a dealer, some scumbag…"

Tig believes he has a solution. "We should off a couple of Nords, Clay, is what we should do. Do that and dump the bodies in Lodi. Buys us time to get the Mexicans out of the hole. Sends a message to Darby. Kill two birds with one Crow."

"At least I'd know the bodies deserved it…" Schuyler tentatively agrees. A few words spoken. Such a simple sentiment yet it's enough to change Schuyler's mindset. Clay is right after all. This job would be first and foremost about keeping Tig out of the spotlight.

"Very clever. With the cops eyeballing the warehouse?" Chibs chides supporting his chin on his hand.

Tig tilts his head down, shrugging his shoulders when responding to the man to his right, "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter."

"I'll handle that. You set it up," Clay orders and Tig stands to leave the chapel.

Jackson begins speaking. It sounds like the plan is coming to him as he lays it out. Talking simply to keep Tig from running off. "What if I could do this without spilling blood?"

Tig pulls a face as if the notion itself is ridiculous. "Hey this isn't about me tripping some guilt shit about my kid. This is about one of us thinking straight. 'Brains Before Bullets', right?"

Clay gestures for Tig to sit. "Let's hear it."

"All we need for murder is bodies and a crime scene."

"Jackieboy," Chibs interrupts, "now ye've lost me."

"Skeeter," Jackson explains. "He's always got more gambling debt than he can handle. I'll make it worth his while."

Bobby pulls a face. Somewhere between discomfort and approval of the younger man's quick thinking. "The cemetery guy?"

Chibs approves. "Cash for cadavers. Like it."

"I give Lodi a front-page murder. We don't stir up another shit storm to bite us in the ass."

"What about educating Darby?" Tig demands rubbing irritably at his beard.

"I'll figure that out. Important thing is to keep your DNA out of the Petri dish. Protect the club."

Schuyler, without intending to pick a side, votes with Jackson. "That's a way better plan."

"Path of least resistance is always better," Clay eventually agrees. "We'll do it your way V.P." And with a plan set in motion, fully organized by the Vice President, the meeting is dismissed. As everyone disperses to attend to their individual tasks Clay confronts Jackson privately. "Don't make me regret this."  
-

Outside, Schuyler is talking with Chibs and Juice waiting for Jackson to emerge. When Chibs catches sight of Jackson's approach he turns towards the garages. "Hold on. I've got to invite Sack." He whistles towards the open garage to Half-Sack who is busy at work. "Prospect! You're in!"

Half-Sack quickly trades his TM employee shirt for his kutte distinguishable from patched members by sporting a single patch reading 'PROSPECT' along the bottom hem.

Jackson throws a set of car keys to Juice who catches them against his chest. "You're driving."

Juice jogs to the driver's seat sinking low into a purposefully generic car that Schuyler can only assume has false plates for the club to use undetected. The prospect is next to reach the car and he naturally opens the passenger side door. Schuyler reaches the prospect as he opens it and shoves his chest hard directing him to the back seat. He rubs his hand across his chest where her hands were to show that the push that made him stumble backwards was felt. "Bitch seat," Schuyler barks and she gracefully falls into the passenger seat slamming the door shut. Though she buckles her seat belt she is just as quick to kick her feet up onto the dashboard and force Juice's arm off of the center armrest claiming the space for herself.

Chibs is laughing when he walks up to the vehicle and glances in at her through the window. The prospect opens the back door and Chibs agrees, "She's right. Bitch seat," before shoving the prospect into the car by his head. There he sits between Jackson and Chibs with his feet propped up to his chest on the hump in the floor because the two older members physically demand the leg room.  
When the doors are closed, Juice drives out of TM's parking lot and Schuyler decides to gage him in conversation as she has grown accustom to doing over the last few days. Though it isn't in a fashion that he has grown to expect.

"¿Cuál es su opinión sobre el 'prospect'?" Schuyler asks casually in fluid Spanish. Turning her head towards Juice as if waiting for an answer she can just see Half-Sack perk up at the mention of 'prospect' out of the corner of her eye. She's pleased that though she was not speaking directly to him, and that she spoke in a language he most likely does not understand, after just a few short weeks he has adopted the habit of filtering out everything he hears to respond to a singular word that can be used to call him to action. He is even willing to answer any member, not just his sponsor, just as he is meant to do.

Juice responds simply. "Was that Spanish?"

This time when Schuyler looks to Juice she is genuinely looking at him in disbelief. "¿No hablas español? ¿Ninguno? ¿Por qué?"

Juice responds in earnest. "I grew up in Queens."

"That's no excuse. How are we supposed to trade heartfelt secrets?" Schuyler's voice drips sarcasm. "More importantly, how are we supposed to talk shit about everyone else?"

"I never had a reason to learn it."

Schuyler turns to look out the window mumbling under her breath, "Pocho."

Juice is quick to reply, "What was that?" clearly able to recognize an insult when he hears one.

"Any stations around here worth listening to?" Schuyler suddenly asks the car at large. She starts spinning a dial on the radio speeding through foreign channels looking for a station name or a title of a song that reflects a particular genre she is searching for.

The prospect, still pissed about having to ride in a seat that is meant to be degrading, thinks aloud, "Not country."

Letting the remark about her accent slip she instead stops on a station that looks promising and turns up the volume until she is straining to speak over the voice that is mid-lyric. "Ye' of little faith."

"…mend myself before it gets me…" a male artist sings from the speakers on a generic rock station.

"Cool song," Juice states approvingly. "I've heard it a few times, but I haven't really gotten into the band."

Schuyler releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding and reaches up to begin fiddling with the rearview mirror. Juice doesn't react as she positions it to were she can make eye contact with Jackson in the back seat without sitting up herself. She looks genuinely offended by Juice's comment and looks to Jackson for answers as to why Juice seems to have neglected so many areas of his life that she evidently deems to be important.

Jackson hides his amusement as he responds blankly. "I ain't his keeper."

Schuyler jams the mirror back to where Juice can mostly use it. "I've got a lot of work to do."

Juice repositions the mirror. "All that and you're not gonna sing for us?"

Schuyler stares out the window for the rest of the drive. She cranks up the radio even further to avoid continuing a conversation, but not without grumbling, "I don't know any of you fuckers like that."

When Juice puts the car in park, it's in a small lot on the edge of town. The sign on the front of the building reads, 'Crematorium' and the waiting room past the front entrance looks well lit. Everyone spills out of the car and ignores the well-lit entrance. Jackson leads the group to the back of the building and pushes on a set of doubles doors that read, 'employees only' inviting himself inside. A man who most likely purchases his clothes in 'Big-N-Tall' sections of department stores is bustling about the steel and concrete room in a leather apron mumbling to himself as he works.

Jackson walks down the steps into the room followed shortly by Half-Sack. The prospect looks uneasy being in a room with one fully functioning oven and several freezers for human corpses lining the main wall. "You really cremate bodies here?"

Chibs makes a threat from the doorway as he is the last to enter and closes the doors to the outside world. "Yeah, we do."

Schuyler chooses to lean on a freezer door while Jackson approaches the man to engage with him. Skeeter drops what he's doing to examine the intrusion when he spots Schuyler and a shy smile that doesn't match his composure forms as he makes a move to shake her hand. "Oh, hi. I'm Skeeter. Nice to meet you."

Schuyler offers a tight smile. "Look, but don't touch, 'Genetic Repo Man'."

Skeeter is happy just to be acknowledged. "Oh yes ma'am. What can I do you for?"

Jackson leads the negotiations with a handsome grin. "We need a favor Skeeter."

"I'm not sure how much help I can be right now. Got a supervisor crawling up my ass from the last one."

"Relax. We're not here to make a deposit."

Chibs joins the rest of the group on the floor to stand over Half-Sack who found a chair against the wall away from the equipment. Chibs pushes the boy's head to look at Skeeter and points making sure he is paying attention. "Actually, it's a withdrawal."

Jackson speaks plainly. "We need two bodies. Fresh."

"Are you serious? For what?"

"Well I could tell you. But then I'd have to stuff you in the furnace."

Skeeter starts a nervous laugh. "Two dead ones? That's crazy shit man."

Jackson produces an envelope, pressing it into Skeeter's chest. "I'm sure you took a beating at the Golden Gate this weekend."

Skeeter passes the folder back forcibly. "No man. I stopped the ponies. I stopped it all. Gambler's Anonymous. Thr-three months now."

"You're kidding? You don't want the money?"

"I'm working a program, you know. Something you might be able to get for me?"

Schuyler rolls her eyes. "What's that?"

"Emily Dunkin."

Jackson immediately defers to Chibs "Emily Dunkin. She's one of our Friday night whores. She loves a good punch up the knickers."

Schuyler averts her eyes, clearing her throat to avoid laughing, as she thinks that the particular choice of words matched Chibs' accent a little too well. To her relief, she goes ignored.

Skeeter becomes very interested. "No kidding. I've been trying to push up on that for a long time."

"You want to hook up with a Croweater, I'll make it happen."

"Really? Well shit. You've got a deal." Skeeter crosses the small room in two strides to pick up a clipboard on a work bench. "I'm not cremating anything 'til the end of the week."

Chibs raises a hand. "We need two by tonight."

"I'm prepping a closed coffin."

"White guy," Jackson asks, receiving an affirmative. "I'll take it. We need a Mexican guy too."

Skeeter turns the page. "Buried one this morning. Cheap seat. Should still be fresh."

Half-Sack's concern grows. His face flushes. "Wait, you mean we got to dig it up?"

"Shit Prospect," Schuyler corrects him. "Who said anything about 'we'?"

"Hey Jax," Schuyler asks from her place in the passenger's seat. Her feet are on the floor, but she's still slouching to avoid being seen through the windshield. The group minus the prospect who they left at the grave site are sitting in the car parked at a public park. Two hundred feet ahead Darby is sitting with his back to them speaking with a large Hispanic man wearing a kutte similar to the Sons' with a different club patch on the back. He is the President of the Mayans MC California chapter. "Should I attempt to listen in? If I stay on this side of Darby, Alvarez still doesn't know my face."

"We stick to the plan. If this works we don't need to know what they're talking about." Chibs follows Jackson out the car to hot wire Darby's Suburban. It being the vehicle chosen to use in the crime scene. The vehicle starts in less than five minutes and Juice follows the black car back to the crematorium.

Returning in record time, the group surrounds the hole in the ground that hadn't existed hours prior. From above, Schuyler can hear Half-Sack complaining to himself. "That's, that's great. Not only do you stink, but you're a fat bastard too."

Chibs drops to lie flat in the grass to peer over the edge into the hole. He shouts, causing Half-Sack to jump, "Ahhh, beware the zombie bikers!"

Everyone else gathers around the grave. "Jesus Christ! You scared the piss out of me."

Juice sits on the edge and jumps down into the hole. He grabs the prospect by the shoulder. "Who's your friend?"

"Hate this shit." Half-Sack looks around to the faces staring down at him. "This is really bad Karma."

Schuyler laughs. "Don't tell me this is offending your delicate sensibilities."

Juice is observing the body that surely weighs in at over three hundred pounds. "How are we going to get him out?"

"I think we're gonnae need a tow truck," Chibs jokes. Though he sounds discouraged knowing he'll be doing most of the lifting. He jumps inside and proceeds to remove the rosary from the corpse's arm to leave in the box and starts calculating how best to lift it.

Jackson joins him falling more gracefully than the two previous. "What are you waiting for Sky?"

"Not me," Schuyler waves her hand dismissively. She sits on the edge letting her feet kick loose dirt from the wall into the hole. "Not unless you want to lift me out too. Remember, I'm short. Don't worry though. I'll be your emotional support."

After thirty minutes of struggle, Schuyler's insistent laughter, and dropping the body twice between the hole and the van, the men eventually stuff the body into the back of Darby's Suburban along with the second provided directly from Skeeter's freezer and cover them with a black tarp. Schuyler takes pity and assists Half-Sack in refilling the hole trading the shovel between them every two dozen scoops.

When the hole is full it is as though the grave site was never disturbed.

The group divide themselves between the two cars. Schuyler reclines in the backseat of the Suburban as she is the least bothered by the smell. Ahead of her Chibs sits beside Jackson in the passenger seat. He helps himself to a beer that Darby left unopened in a cup holder and he lights a cigarette with his free hand. Juice is driving the TM car behind them with Half-Sack in better spirits in the front seat away from the corpses.

"Jesus these guys stink," Jackson complains.

Chibs responds. "We'll leave Darby some good Mexican stench."

From a few blocks away two brightly colored and loud automobiles are racing each other at top speed on the two-lane road. Each is trying to pass the other. Swerving sharply to avoid on coming traffic.  
When they catch up to Juice they pass him without the use of their turn signal. They pass Jackson too. The second car is so quick to turn into the proper lane it cuts Jackson off. Nearly clipping him.

Jackson slams the brakes to keep from running into the smaller sports car. He curses as he yanks the steering wheel abruptly to keep from hitting the side wall.

"Stupid asshole!" Chibs exclaims furiously, "Made me spill my beer!"

Schuyler is casual when checking on the car behind them. The low rider in pursuit is unaffected by the reckless driving of the sports cars. Speeding up the empty road the racers disappear from sight.  
They manage to travel half of the trip to Lodi uninterrupted. Then a police car rises over a hill and passes the vehicles with the false license plates. Red and blue lights flash on. The cop makes an illegal turn in the road and begins his pursuit. Juice is the first to see the patrol car and parks on the shoulder. The police car passes him to pull Jackson over a few car lengths down the road.

"Do you think it's because I wasn't wearing my seatbelt?" Schuyler jokes.

"Head light is out," Jackson reveals as he rolls down his window.

"Shit. Course it is. Stupid redneck," Schuyler complains as she sits up to lean between the front seats. Chibs raises an eyebrow at her. "Yeah, I know. Face forward."

Ignoring her, he pulls his gun from his vest and turns to Jackson who stares at him incredulously. "Lodi's got a sky team. We'll never get away. Not in this piece of shit."

"Put it away," Schuyler states firmly. Chibs begrudgingly complies just as the police officer enters Jackson's window. "Looks like Juice is doing something smart. Afternoon officer."  
The policeman begins his spiel. However, Jackson doesn't offer his license.

Juice reeves the engine. Closing the gap he rams the vehicle into the back end of the patrol car. Then he abandons the car along with Half-Sack. Both jog backwards down the side of the road taunting the badge. "Here piggy, piggy."

The officer falters momentarily. Unholstering his gun to train it on Juice only to lower his arms as he half heartedly starts chasing the men down the street.

As soon as the officer leaves Jackson and Chibs bolt from the Suburban. Jackson is quick with his knife to slash a front tire. Chibs rips the radio from the dashboard ensuring no backup can be reached. Schuyler, meanwhile, jumps over the backseat into the trunk. She lands heavily on top of the corpses without giving any forethought to spiritual ramifications she may face by doing so. She is quick to open the hatchback. Kicking it out with her feet. "Move!"

Back in his seat, Jackson makes a U-turn to pick up the men acting as a distraction. He is driving at a speed that is easily matched by then on foot.

"Run Prospect, run," Chibs yells to his sponsi.

"Get in you blithering imbeciles," Schuyler shouts as she dives over the seat. In her place Half-Sack lands on the black tarp. He reaches out his hand helping Juice inside along with him. The Suburban is in an uproar. Swearing and shouting and flashing middle fingers out the windows at the cop who is standing in the middle of the street defeated.

"Bye copper, bye!"

Several hours later the group has managed not only to ditch the policeman but also steal back the low rider that was compounded. Night falls by the time the group finds a secluded carwash in Lodi to stage the crime scene.

Schuyler is reclining on the hood of the TM car while watching the men with gloves position the corpses in a less than convincing configuration for a double murder, hit and run. The purpose of the scene is not to be convincing, but rather confusing to the officials who will investigate it.

"Hey Sky," Juice engages with her as he and the prospect drop the Caucasian corpse in front of the SUV. Jackson proceeds to direct Chibs in driving the car over the corpse's head which gives into the tire with a discernible 'crack'. "Do you think it's gay if I shave my shit?"

"Are you kidding? It's the twenty-first century. Girls appreciate if you do."

"Man, I told you," he motions to the prospect who move to sit in the passenger seat. "I've been doing it for years."

"Still think it's gay," the prospect mumbles.

"You're both wrong," Jackson states. He's standing over the overweight corpse ready to lift it with Chibs into the driver seat. "It's gay if you shave it. 's not gay if you trim your junk."

"Whatever you gotta tell yourself…"

"Never had any complaints," Chibs chimes in. He counts down from three and lifts the corpse from the ground to the seat. The weight of one of its flailing arms presses the horn on the steering wheel as Half-Sack assists in dragging it into a sitting position. "Common Shammo."

"Sack," Schuyler starts as she rolls off the hood and retrieves multiple bags of blood from the back seat of the TM car. "If I'm expected to shave, you should at least consider shaving. Then maybe one day a really special girl will want to dribble your last ball."

It's Schuyler who notices when Chibs audibly clears his throat in response to her lewd comment. He closes the car door, avoiding her watchful gaze, as he steps in front of the vehicle to survey the scene at large. She is just as quick to advert her eyes. Avoiding drawing attention to the older man as she passes Half-Sack his own bag of blood. "Here. Ice the tub of lard."

The two cover both corpses in the red liquid. Multiple blood types, neither of which belong to the two bodies, can be expected to keep any forensic team busy for at least a few hours until it is realized there is no crime to be solved.

When the bags are empty they fall in line ahead of the car. Jackson is the first to raise his piece to the windshield. "Let's do it."  
Schuyler practices her precise aim, firing into spaces where she knows the men beside her wouldn't think to shoot. The rest hold their firearms with a signal hand and empty their clips sporadically into the front of the car.

"What a beautiful thing!" Chibs exclaims, ceasing firing.

"You plant the gun," Jackson directs. "I'll leave the message."

The message which Jackson writes in blood on an intact window reads, 'M + N = BLOOD'. Leaving county to come to their own conclusions, the message is meant for the MC's competitors.

The drive from Lodi to Charming is significantly uneventful. That is, until Jackson slows the car to a halt in the middle of the road outside a small gas station about five miles from town. "Do you see what I see?"

"Aye." Parked in the small lot is one of the racing cars. The driver's seat is empty.

"That's the douchebag that cut us off."

Jackson parks next to a pump. The prospect keeps Juice company as he fills the tank. Jackson walks into the convenient store with a confident swagger in his step with his friends in tow.

"It's been a very long night brother," Chibs begins to lecture his younger sibling.

"Come on. Won't take long," Jackson grins back.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Chibs?" Schuyler asks, stepping through the door Jackson holds open for her.

The store is cramped with four rows of junk food. A single attendant is standing guard over the register inside a glass box pushed to one wall. Aside from Jackson's intended target there's only one other costumer in the store.

Schuyler approaches the short woman at the end of the aisle furthest from the one the racer is occupying. She whispers over the woman's shoulder, "Hey. Get out of here," and proceeds to lean on the end of the row facing the racing driver's back. When the woman sees Schuyler's vest she promptly leaves. She ducks past the men as well clearly frightened by their mean looks and tough outer personas.

Chibs mirrors Schuyler's stance on the opposite end of the aisle. He waves Jackson on his way. He grimaces while keeping guard to deter civilians from entering.

Jackson stomps down the center rows. He approaches the man pouring a soft drink out of the machine on the back wall. "Hey. Pass me one of those Hostess 'dumbshits'."

The man turns cluelessly. Jackson punches him square in the jaw knocking him to his knees. The soda is thrown across the room soaking the counter and the floor. Jackson lifts him by his shirt and punches him again. When the man doesn't get up from the floor on his own Jackson settles for kicking twice in the chest. "Don't cut me off again asshole."

"Hey! What are you doing?" The cashier shouts from his protective casing in broken English. "My store. What are you doing in my store?"

The man shuffles out of the box into the aisles to better see the fight taking place. He is only kept from approaching by Schuyler who is quick to raise a knife to the man's neck in warning. "Easy Hoss…" The attendant who is scared of both the woman with the black knife and the man who he believes is looting his cash register and is left in limbo occupying the empty space between the two afraid to move or lose sight of either.

Chibs is quick to confront him but is distracted by a security camera inside the box. Chibs pushes past the clerk to begin searching for the evidence of Jackson's display to destroy.

"Feel better?" Schuyler asks Jackson as he walks up to her leaving his victim to whither in pain. They both blatantly ignore the cashier screaming at them to leave the building. From within the box, the sound of Chibs smashing the VHS tape on the countertop can be heard.

"Hell yeah," Jackson smiles. He brushes his hair out of his eyes revealing the blood on his knuckles he is unconcerned with. More than likely due to it belonging primarily to the other man. Over Jackson's shoulder Schuyler watches as the racer climbs to his feet. In the same motion he raises a gun that was previously hidden up with him straight at Jackson's head.

"Why don't you come at me now asshole?!"

Schuyler has just enough time to force Jackson's head down as she herself ducks out of the way. Luckily the racer is a crap shot, primarily due to the pain inflicted by Jackson, and the bullet misses the blondes entirely lodging into the protective glass casing of the box.

Jackson rounds on the speed racer knocking the gun clear out of his hands. The two get caught in a struggle slamming each other between aisles trying to put each other on the floor.  
Chibs steps out from between the protective glass case in search for Jackson. He doesn't interfere immediately but waits to see if his help is required. By doing so he leaves room for the clerk to retrieve a weapon he keeps stashed under the counter. However, the attendant does not return with a wooden bat but rather an axe and he charges past Schuyler with the intent to break up the fight one way or another.

The racer gets the upper hand on Jackson slamming his head on a shelf putting him flat on his back. The man picks his gun up off of the floor and trains it on Jackson who looks up with his hands raised in front of his face.

"Stupid prick," the racer growls as he cocks the handgun. He doesn't get the chance to pull the trigger.

"Enough," Schuyler insists. Drawing her own gun, she raises level with the racer above the aisle forcing him to pause.  
The clerk reaches the scene and there is no sign of hesitation. He is running on pure adrenaline. When it is not evident that the fight is broken up by the waving of an axe, the man is left with only one other option. He swings it.

The axe comes down swiftly. It is buried into the racer's head. The gun drops to the floor with a clatter. And the clerk, left confused as though the action were unintentional, staggers away in horror distancing himself from the man's body which falls sideways against a row of shelves bringing bags of chips and assorted candies down with it.

Schuyler steps into the row and makes make eye contact with Chibs across the aisle in absolute astonishment that the situation could run so far out of hand. Then they see that Jackson is still on the floor between them. His face is covered in blood that is not his own. Through the glass doors Schuyler looks up to see Juice and Half-Sack have finished putting gas in the car and are standing shell-shocked at the entrance having seen the axe bring the body down.

"Holy shit," Jackson exclaims, and he looks jarred. The front doors open but the men outside make no move to enter. The clerk who should have been no less than an innocent bystander is panting as the adrenaline wears off. He is on the verge of tears. Schuyler sees each of the men's responses and decides it is up to her to act quickly.

"Alright. Play time is over." She produces a black leather riding glove from her vest using it to pick the gun up off the floor which she trades for her own. She aims the stranger's gun above Chibs' head and shoots two rounds into the wall behind him where the racer had been facing when fighting Jackson. With her free hand she helps Jackson off the floor. She lines the side of her foot against his own, kicking him in a way to gain his attention, but when he realizes she is standing over him he takes her offered hand and pushes back against her foot to stand. She turns only to point the gun at the clerk and begins to give orders.

"All of you get in the car. Now." She leads the clerk around the store and walks him back into his intended enclosure. "This is why you don't leave the counter. Remember, it was in self-defense." She places the gun on the counter and closes the clerk up inside.

"You okay Jackieboy," she hears Chibs ask behind her.

She turns to see Chibs dusting the V.P off. Jackson is still a little rattled as he gives one last look to the street racer laying in a pool of his own blood. "I'm alright."

"Oh, you were helpful," Schuyler mocks Chibs over her shoulder.

Juice shakes his head. "So much for not spilling any more blood…"

Schuyler squints daggers at the man through the glass. Her voice is authoritarian in nature as she leaves him with her simple instructions. "Forget. Our. Faces."

The clerk, having understood the order, meekly nods his head and hunches over the counter, sobbing silently.

She experienced an interesting shift. The first true test of her reliability and willingness to follow a less than convenient or consistent work schedule based around the needs of others. After finishing a long day, made longer buy an accident that even she couldn't explain, Schuyler arrived at the clinic at five till four in the morning. She was let in by the nighttime kennel technician. She was met several minutes later by the nurse she had been paired with for the particular shift. The young man about her age running solely on Red bull was eager and willing at such an early hour to take orders from Schuyler without question. She put on a brave face and was as responsive as ever to cliental, but by the end of the day she clearly exhausted.

Unfortunately, the early start time did not mean an early end her day. She worked a ten-hour shift with a single break on less than four hours of sleep. By the time she left her locker in her casual clothes it was close to 3:00 PM. Still, the club didn't expect to see her around for a few more hours and she decided to be productive. Jackson had invited her to a dinner at his mother's house taking place this evening. Schuyler decided that bringing food to the party would serve as a good first impression and so grocery shopping became her first destination.

Schuyler hoped that by moving to California she would assimilate into a moderately more modern town, but that is simply not the case. It Is evident that Charming is a small town will a population not much bigger than the one she left in Valor. Being that she is product loyal, she has no need for a Starbucks. However, the severe lack of a Walmart or similar discount realtor stores is quite an inconvenience. She makes a mental note that she will need to search for a more commercial store in the surrounding areas for the long term as she dismounts her bike on main street. Though she's confident that the closest is more than fifteen miles away.

A small-time grocery store is squeezed between a barber shop and a nail salon. She assumes each, like the rest of the pocket-sized stores on either side of the strip, is locally owned and has been for quite some time. She plans to avoid the supposed produce section believing frozen foods to be the safer option. Cars are parked in front of the glass windows beside her bike, but the store looks fairly empty. The building itself holds less than ten aisles and it looks like it can hold just about as many patrons comfortably before feeling crowded.

As she enters, she passes two women on the street. Each is carrying a number of plastic bags from the establishment Schuyler is entering and they are caught up in conversation too busy to pay her any attention. The rest of the street is in a similar state. There are as many empty as filled parking spaces in front of each establishment and a few people occupying either side of the sidewalk. But the strip is far from what Schuyler would ever consider busy.

She enters with an idea of what she will purchase and grabs a basket at the door. She walks through the store planning to peruse the rows from back to front. When she reaches the back wall, she leans down to pick up a loaf of bread with a brand that she recognizes on the bottom most shelf and freezes upon hearing a voice close behind her.

"I almost mistook you for my son." Schuyler spins around to face one of the women that she passed on the sidewalk who had followed her back inside. Clad in a leather jacket with several sparkling bracelets on either wrist the woman with an interesting scar and the edges of what Schuyler recognizes to be a crow tattoo visible on her chest is standing strong in the middle of the aisle unconcerned with taking up space. She has her arms crossed and offers Schuyler a tight-lipped smile. "Then I realized those are not his hips."

"No, they are not," Schuyler replies easily as she ghosts her hand up her own thigh to rest it high on the hip in question. "It's the hair though, right?"

"I've been telling him he needs a haircut for weeks."

"Must be nice. I'm not 'allowed' to cut mine much shorter than this. But I always seem to find a way to do what I want." Schuyler drops the cheap red basket with the loaf of bread on the floor and steps forward into the woman's personal space. The mention of Jackson, who Schuyler shares a similar appearance with, tells her that the woman in front of her is Gemma Teller-Morrow. Her President's Oldlady and her Vice President's mother. That is all the information she needs to know that this woman not only deserves respect, but likely demands it as well. Schuyler offers her hand. "Ma'am, it's nice to meet you."

Gemma accepts the offer while making a face as if she smells something her nose doesn't like. "Not necessary. Call me Gemma."

"Really," Schuyler asks. "I prefer it. I'm Doctor Schuyler, but please, call me Sky. Sorry we haven't met before now."

"Not another doctor." Gemma rolls her eyes. She's visibly irritated, so Schuyler knows not to press her on the individual she evidently has in mind. Gemma's hands gravitate to her hips only about two sizes smaller than Schuyler's own.

"Veterinarian actually," Schuyler begins to explain. "Perfect get away from my usual scene."

"That's quite a bit different from club business, isn't it?" Gemma, like Clay, views the question as an opportunity to gauge Schuyler's value.

"You would be surprised by how similar the two can be. Usually the main difference is the amount of hair on the creatures I have to pick up after."

"But not always." Gemma manages to loosen the hold of her smile a bit. A corner quirking up to one side. It is not meant to be a sign of acceptance but rather a show of good faith. "Well in any case. I knew you couldn't be my son when you stepped foot in here. Thirty years old and he would never do his own shopping." Though Gemma is making small talk it is clear that she is observing Schuyler's movements. Her eyes are calculating; her posture guarded.

"I'm sure it's blasphemous doing it in my vest, but it's meant to keep strangers from walking up and starting conversations." Schuyler makes a show that she can be just as observant. "The woman outside. Do you make a habit of picking up the tab for strangers?"

"Opie's wife. But she hasn't been around much since he went inside."

"I heard. Inside five years. It's hard when that happens. For everyone."

"It is," Gemma agrees and her demeanor shifts. "It's my job to help out where I can. If we stop helping each other we lose everything we've built. Speaking of, I'm hoping that my son remembered to invite you to dinner at my house tonight."

"That's why I'm here. Sack mentioned something about not eating meat. If I know anything about the people hanging around my club I know that not even the chefs would think twice to include a vegetarian option. Thought my contribution could be something green. If nothing else I can get a kick out of seeing those guys discover a new color of food."

"That's awfully considerate of you," Gemma muses. She finds the woman more than two decades younger than herself to be amusing though she is still trying to gauge if the doctor has an angle beyond simply making friends.

"As long as he doesn't know I'm the one that brings it we should be good." There is a lull in the conversation. Schuyler looks down to her basket. "Well, this isn't my first errand today."  
"The club keeps us all busy," Gemma suggests.

"That it is does. First chance I've had to see the town." Schuyler doesn't take the bait. She keeps her answers broad unsure of exactly how much Gemma knows about her family's extracurricular activities. "Figured I'd run errands while I'm at it."

"Club have anything going on tonight? Just so I know how late to expect you."

Schuyler knows it's a test to see if she is willing to divulge information willingly. Even to Oldladies. "Probably just going to have a beer at the clubhouse," Schuyler smiles easily, "You know, the usual. Then we'll head over to your place."

"One big happy family." Gemma seems pleased with Schuyler's cooperation. "I'll see you tonight. Make sure they arrive in one piece."

"I'll certainly do my best."

Schuyler was actually the first to arrive which is a first. Instead of going to the clubhouse like she had suggested she would to Gemma members where meeting at the crematorium to dispose of the bodies, and the evidence, linking the club to the warehouse. She spent an hour in the back-parking lot engaging with Skeeter every couple of minutes who seemed to be making excuses to leave him dungeon to do so. Bikes arrived slowly one at a time until eventually a black van carrying the bodies of the two Mexicans that Tig and Bobby had retrieved from the gun factory.

The two burly men pulled folded black tarps from the back and each walked one into the cemetery building shoving them none too delicately into the furnace.

The group gathers around the open oven door. They watch as the low flames lap at the already charred corpses and pause unsure how to proceed.

Still the most skittish of the bunch the prospect offers to break the ice. "Should we say a prayer or something?"

Juice standing beside him cannot help but to crack a joke. "Anyone know any Bible passages for lost semen?"

"Please say yes!" Schuyler exclaims from the back row. Unable to keep her composure during what she views as a ridiculous display she heads up the stairs towards the exit as Jackson punches Juice in the back for being disrespectful.

Tig, who is the cause of the women's bodies needing to be burned in such an impersonal way, is standing closest to the furnace as he bows his head and says a short prayer. "Amen." Reassuring himself with the prayer he presses a button invigorating the fire and closes the oven door solemnly.

The group arrives in a single motorcade parking their bikes in the driveway and along the street. Several other vehicles are parked in the yard and across the street as well signaling the club are the last guests to arrive.

Schuyler dismounts beside Jackson who sees her pull a clear container out of her bike bag in a manner that suggests she is trying to conceal it. "What's in there?" His answer is a raised finger to her lips.

Inside the warmly lit house is full and teaming with life. Several women are bustling about the kitchen passing a joint between them as they prepare the food. One of them has a small child clutching the hem of her shirt refusing to leave her side.

The women's relation with the club isn't evident. None of them attempt to greet the motorcycle members beyond offering a familiar smile or wave. They do not approach Schuyler. After reflexively raising their kept eyebrows towards a new female body they see the club vest on her back and are quick to change facial expressions to one showing kindness and respect. None of them are wives or Oldladies. Most likely they are long time friends of the club in need of a good meal and just as good of company.

The one face Schuyler recognizes in the kitchen is Gemma who, just as Schuyler had anticipated, has complete control. She is directing the menu and the items that need to be prepared first. She places a bowl in another woman's hand and sends her into the dining room to place it on the banquet table.

Schuyler slips the container of coleslaw on the counter and Gemma nods her appreciation before sending Schuyler into the dining room with the rest of the group not allowing her the chance to offer assistance.

In the dining room there are no less than ten chairs pushed against the wooden table. Individuals are milling about the dining room and den, but when Clay takes a seat at the head of the table, everyone else follows suit.

The table slowly fills with bowls and trays of home cooked food and the servers eventually sit down signaling everyone to begin eating. Those who are too late to grab a seat at the primary table fill a smaller table put up in the living room for the meal.

Conversation is pleasant and constant. When Gemma takes a seat beside her husband she greets Clay with a sweet kiss reserved only for him.

Schuyler sits on the furthest edge of the table, but that doesn't keep her from joining the discussion. She even manages to hold conversations with Jackson and Gemma with several heads between them.

At some point, Tig looks down at Half-Sack's plate and notices a severe lack of meat. He picks up a plate of ribs and waves it under his nose tauntingly causing the boy to grimace.

Schuyler who is sitting on the other side of the prospect steps in. She is careful when pushing Tig's forceful arm away by touching the lip of the plate. "Leave the poor boy alone. He'll out live all of us if he stays away from this artery clogging heart attack on a plate." She passes Half-Sack the very container she bought and prepared today. The prospect takes it gratefully. He is none the wiser.

As talk wears down during the night everyone has a hand in picking up the table. The women return to the kitchen assisting Gemma in cleaning the dishes and several men are thoughtful enough to take full trash bags out as they leave. The house empties steadily and the air cools as more space is made.

Each person leaves feeling full from the food and content from the conversations. Closer to their chosen family then when they entered.  
Schuyler makes sure to thank Gemma for hosting her as she was taught to do. Then she leaves quietly, never one to over stay her welcome.

Outside she runs into Juice as he talks to Half-Sack who she had seen leave several minutes prior. Juice waves to the prospect as the boy speeds away on his bike.

From across the street Schuyler calls to Juice. "Hey Juicy! Nos vemos."

"What does that mean?" He lifts his hands in defeat.

She picks her helmet up off a handlebar. She flicks the visor down after shouting her farewell. "It's your first language lesson. Figure it out!"

**Author's Notes: **

"Nos Vemos" means "see you" in Spanish. While this may seem like a little throw away moment, I guarantee it has plot relevance. And maybe I just like these two character's current and future friendship!

What a nice family dinner. It seems like everything is capable of working out in the end. Of course, if this were always the case, we wouldn't have a story. Remember we are still in the introductions phase. The beginning of the first season. There is still plenty left to uncover.

For now, I'd like to leave you, the reader, with a few questions to ponder. General polls:  
1\. Do you prefer to see chapter summaries for the new chapter, chapter reviews for the last chapter (since its a few weeks in between each), neither (and perhaps instead teasers for the next chapter), or some combination? I want to make the reading process for you as easy to follow and enjoyable as possible!

2\. Are you enjoying the lengths of the chapters so far? Are they too long or do you like longer chapters? Would you prefer to see smaller chapters (and maybe more frequent updates as a result, but this isn't a guarantee) or are you enjoying the format that mimics the original episodes?

Just so I have a clearer idea as how to continue with posting the story.

Now I'd like to offer some more fun questions to ponder:

1\. What's been your favorite scene thus far and why?

2\. What's your favorite relationship up to this point? (brother - sister and who; father - daughter between Schuyler and Piney; others that are just starting out that we have yet to fully discover?) I have mine and would love to hear yours!

I'm offering these questions now because certain relationships may evolve quickly or your answer may drastically be changed in the next few chapters...

With the technical stuff out of the way, I really hope you're enjoying the story thus far! I sure am enjoying writing it. Don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts in the form of a comment (answering the questions would be an easy way to leave a comment! Let's hang out between updates!).

I'll see you for the next instalment of TROD!


	5. Carnival, pt 1

Schuyler grips the small black steering wheel tightly between her hands. The artificial sounds of metal ricocheting off metal mixing with strobe lights is as obnoxious as it is encompassing. Bells and whistles dampen her senses, yet it is not enough to distract her from the feeling of being watched.

Her heart is pounding in her chest. The machines draw circles on the false tarmac around her. The environment stills. Then – "Charge!"

The command comes from Jackson who is sitting in a compact bumper car he barely squeezed himself into. Schuyler instinctually covers her face in brace for the impact. Four red and blue plastic cars strike her own nearly in unison jostling her violently. She hears the other occupants burst into hysterics.

When she looks up she punches towards the closest person who happens to be Juice. He is close at hand, but the safety harness strapping her to the dinky seat prevents her from landing a solid blow. Juice chuckles heartily as he drives away to avoid her retaliation. The remaining cars do the same. Only Tig thinks to reverse his toy car and make a second impact to Schuyler's as part of his getaway scheme.

Schuyler rejoins the game. She chases Jackson and Bobby who made the mistake of sticking together. She runs Bobby off the hypothetical road straight into the wall and purposefully sends her toy car into a tail spin crashing into Jackson. This goes on until the machines are stopped by the carnival operator and the adults are ushered to the nearest exit to make room for the children in line who are likely better fitted to the ride.

Outside the bumper car station, they are met by Clay and Gemma. The older married couple acts the part of perfectly happy, doting parents waiting to collect their rambunctious kids at the exit gate. They walk with their arms draped around each other as their figurative children bumble behind them through the carnival grounds. Gemma is especially handsy in regard to her husband, but neither her biological son nor his siblings by choice seem to mind the exchange. Despite how much fun is being had, this too, is official club business.

A traveling carnival popped up on the outskirts of Charming overnight. With the intention of maintaining peaceful cohabitation with the residents of Charming, SAMCRO chose today to put on a public face. Clay was sure to order any members who were free, including Schuyler to make her official debut, to attend. Thus, allowing locals to see with their own eyes that his club is made up of ordinary citizens who are in no way a threat like the police department would like to have them believe. Clay has always had a gift for maintaining appearances.

As if on cue a man, dressed in business causal wearing an expensive watch, enters the club's peripheral view. The man's very kept wife hugs their daughter in a pink shirt a little tighter upon seeing the parade of leather marching towards her. She speaks franticly to her husband in a hushed voice failing to conceal her desire to avoid making small talk. The man calmly approaches Clay despite her pleas.

"How are you doing Elliot?"

"Okay Clay."

"How are things at the ranch this season?"

"Okay Clay." The men's' tone is polite.

Gemma offers her greeting to the man's wife. It is returned in a practiced voice. Schuyler concludes the family has enough money to leave this town which is probably why they are here in the first place.

"Mom, I want to go on the bumper cars." The girl, of no more than thirteen, had gotten the idea from seeing the adults step off the ride.

"Are you sure," the woman asks, happy to have a reason to avoid eye contact. "They can be a little rough sometimes."

Schuyler is happy to engage with the little girl by offering her a hand full of tickets. "Here. Take some of mine. Go on. They kicked me out for being too competitive and scaring away all the boys."

The little girl captures the tickets in her hand and giggles. The girl's mother offers a tight-lipped smile in response to her parenting choices being challenged. "What do you say to the nice lady?"

"Thank you!" the pre-teen squeaks. She breaks from her mother's grasp to stand in line.

"No problem."

The man's wife leans heavily into his side and directs her next comment to the club. "It was nice seeing you, but we need to go."

Jackson knows the kind of stress his club can bring onto outsiders. He takes it upon himself to causally lead his friends further into the grounds away from his mother and stepfather who whisper flirtatiously about an act involving a photo booth and many more tickets.

Schuyler walks behind the group getting a feel for the population of the town. She observes a great number of families. Charming is an ideal place to raise children away from the bustle of big cities. Though there does not seem to be much diversity, the locals seem to be inclusive and get along with one another. No one is a stranger. People wander up to each other to start conversations whether they had seen each other last week or last year, and she witnesses multiple instances of individuals going out of their way to meet the few residents they are unfamiliar with. This explains why so many eyes are on her. She is the odd man out. She would wager that if she wasn't walking beside the notorious SOA, she wouldn't be able to avoid the vast number of civilians introducing themselves to her.

Ahead of her, she hears Bobby ask Jackson: "Darby's guys?"

She follows his line of sight. Two lumbering men with shaved heads and Aryan ink confirms they match a particular profile. The skinheads cross the MC's path; unaware they are being observed.

"I've never seen them before."

A random voice breaks through the cacophony of carnival goers. "Hey! Where you going? Five more bucks, your son will be convinced you're a loser."

A carnie is sitting high atop a dunking booth heckling a man and his son who stomp away fuming. The large waisted man in clown makeup catches sight of the MC. Sitting above the action without shade to cover him, his round face is visibly red from the mid-afternoon sun despite the white makeup covering it. His eyes grow wide as he fumbles over his words in a rush to get them out. Obviously he views the group as a prime target.

"Ohhh, look at the big bad bikers with their shiny chain wallets. Come to get clown-y all wet?"

Jackson hands a high school volunteer some tickets and receives three balls. He stands behind the indicated line in the grass and is spurred on by positive murmurs from his companions. He reels his arm back, throws, and misses the stripped target by a sizable margin.

"What's the matter tough guy? Performance anxiety?" The second ball is closer but misses. "You're embarrassing yourself in front of your girlfriend and all her little boyfriends."

"That right," Jackson shouts. He lobs his last ball straight at the carnie's head. It would have reached its mark if it hadn't been for the protective plastic.

"Tough luck champ." The clown claps his hands together joyfully as if he won a game of his own. "Hey sweetheart! Why don't you come sit on clown-y's lap? Let him show you how a real man sticks a small ball through a tight hole."

"Oh no," Tig shakes his head and one can see the humor drain from the carnie's flabby body. "That's a Bozo no-no."

"Hang-Hang-Hang on guys. I was just joking. I was just-" Tig is the first to reach the booth. He punches the target and the carnie produces a big splash. Tig scales the side of the dunk tank and sticks his hand inside, forcibly holding the carnie's head below the surface. Jackson climbs up the built-in ladder on the opposite side and hovers his foot over the barrel. Every time the clown tries to stand he gets himself kicked in the face. Juice uses the lip of the tube for balance; lifting himself up to get a better look. Occasionally he lands a blow of his own. The clown turned human punching bag has been converted into the carnival's best offer of entertainment.

The front of the booth holds a window to view the water inside. Schuyler shakes her head mockingly at the sputtering man being half drowned, half-beaten in the booth. "You just had to open your mouth, didn't you?" She gives the plastic a strong kick for good measure.

Tig's burner rings in his vest bringing him down from the booth. He has it to his ear for less than ten seconds. The exchange causes every ounce of fun to evaporate; it is replaced by his rough SA demeanor. He whistles loudly to halt the assault. "Chibs called. Guinness arrived on the docks."

The bikes are stacked neatly against the front gate. This is to make room for the expected semi-truck hauling a flatbed carrying strategically packed oil barrels to park alongside the bike railing.

Clay leans heavily against said railing while observing Half-Sack sweep the garage. "Think he's deep enough?"

Jackson offers his council. "May only have one nut, but it's a big one. I trust him."

"Hey Prospect!" Clay waves to the boy. "Come over here. Learn a thing."

The prospect tosses the broom aside and jogs in front of the flatbed as it enters.

"Watch out." Tig manages to make a show of friendship sound like a personal threat. "Don't get hit."

Half-Sack jumps up beside Juice who is perched on top the railing. He lets his feet swing freely. Schuyler asks a question for both their benefit. "Dealing directly with Belfast. That's a pretty tall order. Anything I need to watch out for?"

"They're stacked to the nines when partaking in business and they're religious zealots at home," Juice explains with an undertone of sarcasm. "So, don't skimp the bill and don't 'take the Lord's name in vain'. They'll pretty much leave you alone if you stick to those unspoken rules."

As Juice gives a rundown of the club's gun supply partner, Chibs jumps out of the passenger seat and steps up to Clay. "It's just McKeavy." He motions towards the Irishman who steps down from the cab. "Rest of th' boys made a head start up north. He'll be following them tomorrow."

The group migrates towards the flatbed. Schuyler tries to follow but is stopped by Clay's warning. "They can handle it. No need to go starting fires and the Irish…they can be a little…"

"Traditional?" Schuyler offers with a scowl.

"Aye, that's one word for it," Chibs huffs under his breath.

"I didn't want to play with oil barrels anyway."

Schuyler looks on as the group, excluding Jackson, advances towards the truck. Jackson stays and offers her a cigarette from his own pack. She takes it and lights it herself. "He told me to hang back, not you."

"I know." Jackson exhales through his nose. "I am 'cause I can and 'cause I don't wanna unload either."

Clay greets McKeavy with a hearty hug in a way suggesting the two are old friends.

"Clay, it's good to see ya."

"Same here Michael. Bring any iron with you?"

"Russia iron. Enough to keep the torch burning. Let me show ya."

Tig and Chibs follow McKeavy onto the flatbed. They watch intently as McKeavy unscrews the false lid, camouflage necessary to transport, on the first oil barrel. They then hand down both assembled and non-assembled pieces of hardware to the patched members.

As Clay begins his rudimentary questioning of the products, McKeavy catches sight of a woman. A woman with a stitched Reaper on her back conversing with the club's V.P. During an exchange of goods, no less, under the cover of darkness as if she has a right to be in his presence or anywhere near his merchandise.

McKeavy interrupts Clay mid-sentence. He conceals his anger poorly behind a half smile. "Yer letting the Oldladies wear the patch now, is that it?"

Jackson pulls hard on his cigarette drawing the smoke into his lungs to keep from responding in a less than civil manner. Bobby wears an expression meant to urge his President to answer the questioning of a club member. Everyone else falls eerily silent, unsure if they should step in themselves or proceed with unloading as if the comment had never been made.

Schuyler bites down on the orange filter. Instead of inhaling, she rolls the tube between her front teeth and lets it drop onto the cement. She turns as she trades the cigarette for her left thumb and pointer finger releasing a long, high pitched note. Half-Sack is particularly impressed with the volume of the sound, but the whistle is used to keep anyone else from responding for her.

She uses the same hand to expose the left side of her chest, purposely pulling hard enough on her dark flannel blouse to unbutton an additional button. The action reveals her chest down to the lining of her black bra. "Do you see a ring on my finger? Do you see a crow here, mate?" She spits the last syllable in demand of an answer.

"Not sure yet love. Why don't you open more of those buttons and we'll all find out?"

She releases the fabric, not caring how exposed she may be, and takes a few steps towards the man who is on higher ground. "No one is ever going to tie me down. Not now, not fucking ever."

"She's in Michael," Clay states coolly. "It's no concern to you."

McKeavy ponders Clay's words. He ultimately decides to be satisfied by having earned a rise from the woman. "Aye. Sorry lass. No offense was meant."

Inside the clubhouse, McKeavy sits beside Clay on a bar stool with a complimentary drink in hand. Members gather close by to witness the exchange. Only Schuyler and Half-Sack sit at a distance next to Juice who takes stock of the new inventory he has laid out on a pool table.

Schuyler is sitting backwards in a hardwood chair with her chin resting on top of her crossed arms. She left her shirt unbuttoned as an act of defiance and is trying her best to appear uninterested in the meeting; more intrigued by the assembly line in front of her. Comparatively, Half-Sack sits adjacent to her with his back to the pool table and elbows to his knees. His eyes attentively track the conversation.

Clay waits for McKeavy to take a swig from his beer mug. "Mayans torched the warehouse where we store and assemble our weapons."

"Holy shite. What the hell will that do to yer business?"

"Nothing more than an unfavorable setback. We bought nine acres on the other side of the county. We start rebuilding, we'll be up and running in two months. Three, tops."

"Can't you assemble them here?"

"We've learned our lesson a few times," Clay replies with a gesture to the wall of mugshots. "We don't cross our money streams. This is strictly a legit automotive business."

"Are you meaning to go three months without buying weapons from us? What's the army meant to do in the meantime? SAMCRO's a huge piece of our income."

"You'll have to make the adjustment with us, alright? It's part of business."

Since arriving, McKeavy has only been friendly towards Clay. Schuyler gets the impression her presence has put him in a less than cooperative mood. "This isn't a business for us, brother. True IRA. We're not merchants; we're soldiers. The guns we sell fuel the cause. Without that, we lose ground."

"We support the cause McKeavy," Chibs reminds the Irishman. Having spent the better half of a day with McKeavy and his associates, Chibs has begun to slip into speech patterns he once was more accustomed to hearing and using himself. "S'it like this jus' 'appens. We'll 'ave our guns up and running in no time."

"That's the problem. No time!" McKeavy fires back. "T'ree weeks would cripple us. T'ree months, we can't wait for that."

"The hell do you mean by that," Jackson interjects.

McKeavy looks at the younger man belittlingly. "I'm saying if ye can't front us the cash, we're gonna have to find us a new buyer."

"I've been buying guns from you for over a decade Michael." Clay knowingly uses the Irishman's first name in a show of trust. "When you split with Adams, I stayed with you because of our friendship."

"You stayed with me because the other coward sold out. We're the only outlaws left. Now don't take this personally Clay. Your warehouse burning down is a casualty of commerce. We lose our guns, that's a casualty of war."

"We might could swing a down payment." As treasury, Bobby extends his financial advice as an olive branch. "Any more than that and you'll be putting us underwater."

"That's not going to work. I have to be paid on time, in full." McKeavy sweeps over the bar. His eyes land on Schuyler's back. "And once I tell the army about my visit, they're going to expect more. Insurance. Have to make sure you boys are aware of where your priorities lie."

"Don't go filing divorce papers just yet." Schuyler grabs onto the back of the chair and leans backwards to peer past the prospect. She levels the Catholic with an equally disparaging glare. She isn't the least bit concerned with his threat to make her status known. "We'll get you the money we owe you. We just need a little bit of time and a little good faith."

McKeavy is irritated Schuyler is the one who agrees to his terms, yet acknowledges she is willing to meet them. He will keep his knowledge to himself until she proves she is capable of being a real threat. He views her as no more than an insect and lets it show plainly on his face.

"I'll be in Washington before the week's out. Don't know for how long, but I'll let Chibs know when I plan to leave. I'll need the money before I can return. Next month's payment plus a month's insurance. The army will ask you keep paying this way for every month you are out of commission, but I expect you not to let it come to that, Clay. Or the army will find itself needing to make new arrangements."

Clay makes the final decision himself and agrees to the Irishman's demands. He shakes McKeavy's hand and walks him out of the bar. The other members hear their President apologize for the trouble McKeavy experienced and make promises for business to return to normal.

"How the hell are we gonna come up with two hundred k?" Tig grumbles. "How long is he going to be state's side? Six weeks, a month?"

"If we're lucky," Chibs supplies, leaning heavily on the counter. He isn't surprised by McKeavy's greed or aversion to any form of change. He is simply relieved to be done entertaining him for the day. "Less than that, more than likely."

"Come on Tig," Juice interjects. He recalls Schuyler's crack at McKeavy and makes a joke of his own. "Didn't you hear? We just have to have a little faith."

Bobby reassures them. "Something will come up. Something always does. Just another day at the office."

"Sack, what did you learn today?" Jackson inquires for no other reason than to keep his own frustration at Clay and the situation from festering.

Half-Sack produces a noise like a tire releasing air. "Business isn't easy. Sometimes there are speed bumps and clients get mad."

"That's almost a legitimate answer." Schuyler slaps the prospect on the back. "A compound sentence and everything. You get a gold star for today's lesson."

"What did you learn Sky?" Bobby shoots back.

"Honestly, I wasn't listening." She turns her nose up.

"Come on Schuyler."

"Oh, 'three', 'three', 'fuck you, I'm not bending over backwards to help you out'." Schuyler allows her annoyance to bleed through. She feels she's earned the right to do so.

Chibs is mildly amused if the quirk of his eyebrows is any indicator. "Ye were listening?"

"It was mainly the threes. I'm going to hear them in my dreams."

"Dreams?" Juice quips. Schuyler eyes him sideways. He raises a gun up to his line of sight as if inspecting, yet his grin is teasing. "Couldn't have been all bad."

"Still doesn't excuse the bastard from looking like a toad stool."

The small jab at the Irishman, delivered after the fact, earns her a few sympathy laughs. Tonight, every man had the opportunity to witness the kind of blowback Schuyler's presence can generate. Though many of their first instinct had been to come to her aid – just as they would for one another – they had yet to experience backlash of this caliber. Especially from someone who should be a trustworthy ally. Through no fault of their own, they chose not to rock the boat.

No one is more caught off guard by her comment than Chibs. It isn't so much a laugh as a chortle that escapes him. Quiet and airy from low in his abdomen. And then, another. This time louder. He is forced to convert the sound into a cough to prevent it from continuing for longer than could be considered appropriate.

Schuyler hears his laugh before she sees his amusement. The room seems to still as she witnesses the joy she is responsible for so shortly after receiving misfortunate news. The sound is pleasant to her ears. She finds herself liking the idea of being able to make him laugh. But not a moment later, she reverts her attention to the matter at hand. She moves her eyes anywhere and everywhere else, feeling much like a child getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

The group disperses with the knowledge that tomorrow will bring yet another day for club business. Most leave straight away. Schuyler stays long enough to see Jackson assist Juice in relocating the guns where they will be secure for a time. Chibs lends some mentor-like words to his prospect and sends the boy on his way. Then he himself makes a break for the exit, evidently having had enough human interaction to suit him for one day.

Ever confident, Schuyler catches up with Chibs just outside the door. The parking lot is dark and a single, pale light hangs from the roof over the loading dock. She comes parallel with a picnic table and her form is barely captured in the light's glow. In a soft, friendly voice, she calls to him. "Your accent."

"Yeah." He stops dead on the opposite edge of the light's dull luminescent beam. He considers ignoring her before back peddling into her space. He positions himself close enough to avoid having to raise his voice. It briefly occurs to him there should be no need to concern himself with anyone hearing their conversation as the lot is empty. Making the calculation alone, then realizing he had done so, surprises him. However, it doesn't keep him from remembering his annoyance at his accent, one of two prominent assets marking him as distinctly different within his own club, being called to attention.

"It got 't'icker'." She mimics what she had closely monitored in the Irishman's speech and is unable to avoid admiring within Chibs' own despite the difference in dialects. "When you were speaking with McKeavy."

He makes a conscious effort to keep from drawling his reply. In doing so, he nearly sounds American. "What of it?"

Schuyler decides it doesn't suit him. "Just thought you should know. It happened, is all."

Something in Chibs' demeanor shifts dramatically. He's no longer irritated; rather he's intrigued. Like he just made a discovery. He draws nearer still until he is less than two feet from her. He forces eye contact with the younger woman to test his boundaries. "Do ye find it distracting?"

Schuyler kept her feet firmly planted as he advanced, but she could do nothing to prevent her eyes from dilating even the tiniest fraction. She's comforted by her certainty that he is unable to tell in the poor lighting which is hardly enough to highlight their figures in the dark. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She slinks past Chibs, taking precautions to keep from brushing against him, and heads towards her bike. She feels his eyes on her as she peels out of the parking lot with more torque than is necessary.

Nine days. It took Schuyler nine days to flush San Bernardino from her system and integrate, rather effectively she believes, into Charming. But there are some things she will never be able to shake from her past. Nor would she ever want to.

She rolls over in bed to grab her iPhone off her nightstand. The bright light illuminates her face flashing the time in thin numbers. It's early. She wishes she could sleep in on days like today, but her body is used to waking up with the sun.

A picture of herself beside a man her age, his arms covered in disconnected tattoos, peers down on her from the lock screen. He's a few inches taller than she is and they each have an arm around the other. They are smiling like they own the world. At the time the picture was taken, it certainly felt that way.

She types in a passcode and a different picture fills the home screen. Schuyler is in front of a billboard outside of an arena. She's sandwiched between a brutish looking man much taller than herself and a beautiful woman whom she shares nearly every physical feature in common with. The three of them are wearing concert T-shirts from separate events. The shirt Schuyler is wearing doesn't fit her as it originally belonged to the man and it is nearly as old now as she was in the picture then. She still has the shirt. The picture was taken at a concert they were seeing by the man who is on her lock screen. She remembers when the picture was taken and can recall seeing four more boys, not much older than herself, standing behind the camera operator not so patiently waiting for their turn in front of the marquee. That was a good show.

Opening the phone app, she presses the first man's name and the dial tone rings out three times. Schuyler thinks she'll get the automated message until the line is picked up. "You're late." The man's voice is groggy with sleep despite it being a Monday morning and he's several hours ahead of her in his time zone. She knows he's lying in bed more than likely mirroring her posture. They each have a knee bent and their free hand is lying across their eyes. "I expected to hear from you days ago."

"Give me a break Beau." Despite her need to feign annoyance, she's glad to hear her best friend's voice. She's made it a habit to call home every Friday night since she left Texas. Even going a week without hearing from Jessie – or, as his childhood friends named him, Beau – feels like a stretch since before Schuyler moved to California they'd never spent more than seven days apart. Not even while Beau did time behind bars. "It's only been nine days. You're getting to be as bad as my mother."

"It ain't my fault you up and moved yourself halfway around the world."

"Hardly." She hears rustling on his end and realizes he is clambering out of bed to avoid waking the woman and small children who are more than likely sharing his sleeping space. "If I had any sense I would have gone farther."

"Still. Gotta keep track of my baby sister. How's it been, inside the Mother charter? Does it live up to the legend?"

"Nah. Bunch of pushovers these guys. Same club, different area code." She pauses. "There are good people here."

"They ain't being too tough on you, are they? For real. I don't want to have to head out there to teach a bunch of beach bunnies some good old-fashioned southern hospitality, but I will."

"Took a few of them the week to get use to the idea of me." The corners of her lips curl upwards as a particular person enters her mind. She stops them despite Beau being unable to see her. "Managed to sell them on the idea of me. Happened quicker than it did with SANDINO which has got to count for something."

"Did you find it Sky?" Beau reaches the other end of his house and his voice becomes startlingly solemn. It fully wakes Schuyler from her sleep. She sits up in bed. "Did you find what you were looking for out there?"

"The change of scenery has been nice."

"Glad to hear it." He sounds unconvinced.

"One of Eddies' old platoon mates is still here. Piermont?" she prompts the receiver.

"Yeah. I remember. Vietnam. Helped Eddie start out but couldn't make his wake."

"We went on a run Friday. I impressed the hell out of him!"

"No doubt!"

She admits, "It's been nice. Talking to him. Getting to hear his side of things."

"That's awesome! He must have been who called Sammy last week. She heard you were getting along out there like a house on fire. Have you talked to her?"

"Ma's next. Gotta check on Krueger." She pictures the gray and white dog she hand raised, no longer a cuddly puppy, but a fierce guard dog with a neck the size of a tree trunk and a muzzle to match. "Guess I'll say hi to her while I'm at it. How's Christy, the kids?"

"Just as high maintenance as ever. That goes double for my Oldlady." The two share a fond laugh. "Misty's starting kindergarten."

"Already? Last baby is leaving the house. Are you excited?"

"Ain't goin' nowhere 'til she's eighteen and got a job."

"You're doing great with them. Even without me there."

"They miss aunt Sky. Especially the girls. They need a female role model."

"I miss them too. We'll Skype next Friday. Promise. How are the boys?" By 'boys' Schuyler is referring to not only the members whom she prospected with, but all the patches of her home charter who she grew to trust and rely on and they her in return.

"Everyone's adjusted to you being gone. Dad's doing great! Holding the club together by pure force of will." Beau dramatically clears his throat. "We're expecting a storm next weekend coming up from the south. Should blow over though." It never rains in Texas. Especially not this time of year. The code means the club has a routine shipment to make to clients in Mexico. "Is it too early for me to ask?"

"Yes, it's too early. I haven't been gone two months. We spent more time in England."

"You know that was different."

He means that was before. When the club was still whole. When Schuyler went abroad, not only did Beau travel with her as it was for club business, but it was for a scheduled amount of time. When she went, she was always going to come back to her home. Even if she decides to return to Texas now, it will only be for a short visit. California is meant to become her new home. "I'll plan a visit soon. I'm glad to hear it's been routine for y'all. Shits amped up here."

"Anything I need to worry about?"

"Just a bunch of little things happening at once, but still. I've got to get my sea legs under me before I start traveling back and forth." Even as she makes the promise to do so, she knows both communities will suffer under the weight of her divided attention.

"Remember. It's a three-day drive if you ever need to see me. No reason too small."

"Yeah or for my big brother to come up and lend a hand."

"I already said I would! Ain't gonna leave you high and dry."

"Appreciate it Beau. Handle your shit. Talk soon."

"Give 'em hell Sky."

—

A car with a higher price tag than every vehicle Schuyler has ever owned combined blocks her from entering Teller-Morrow. When the driver parks, she finds her spot in the lineup where she observes Clay and Jackson approach the vehicle prior to the driver opening his door. The two escort the man with an expensive watch, the very same family man from the carnival, into the garage office out of sight from anyone visiting the automotive shop. If Clay's attempt to conceal the polished man are not suspect enough, Jackson is sure to close the door securely behind them. He draws the blinds closed for additional privacy.

Schuyler walks up to the first club members she sees in search of answers. Tig is milling around outside the garage doors and Half-Sack, having seen the stranger's nice car arrive, steps beside him to get a better view of the machine.

"Hey, why's Clay bent on keeping his friendship with money bags a secret? It's not like everyone in town didn't see us chatting up his family yesterday."

"Look, not that it's any of your business," Tig snarks. Schuyler bats her eyes at him with the patience of a cat. "That's Elliot Oswald. Most prestigious douchebag in town."

"That tells me nothing."

Half-Sack is still admiring Oswald's car. "Nice Benz. Oswald – as in Oswald lumber?"

"Yeah, Oswald lumber, Oswald beef, Oswald construction." Tig smirks while giving too much information to the prospect, despite the fact he should be regarded as a lower rank than Schuyler. "He owns everything worth owning for twenty miles around."

"Was that so hard?" Schuyler asks.

"What? Educating the prospect." Tig's face is smug. He wraps an arm too tightly around Half-Sack's neck. "Nah. Wasn't hard."

"Uh-huh. You still don't have a damn clue what they're talking about in there, do you? Must hurt some part of your giant ego."

Tig has time to sneer but is kept from forming a rebuttal as the office door abruptly swings open. Oswald darts out with hasty steps towards his car. He appears to have had more than a few of his feathers ruffled. Even at a distance he can be seen fighting back tears.

Clay and Jackson stomp out after him looking like men on a mission. Jackson hollers in their direction, "Table. Now!"

"Oswald paid us a visit," Clay says around a cigar in his mouth. He lights it for the steadiness the nicotine brings to his deteriorating hands. "His daughter was put in the hospital last night. She was raped. In Macon woods, not far from the carnival."

Juice shifts uncomfortably as he avoids eye contact. Chibs on the other hand lights a blunt he had stored in his vest and waits for Clay to continue. "Oswald gave a report to Hale this morning, but his daughter's going to be in the hospital for a couple of days. Kid's thirteen. He came to ask the club a favor."

Jackson finishes the request for him. "He wants us to find the guy who did it."

"Vigilante justice," Chibs exhales with smoke.

Bobby pushes out of his seat, muttering and pacing the length of the room. "Thirteen…thirteen!"

Schuyler lights a cigarette. She feels the room grow warmer as it gradually fills with the familiar, almost comforting mixture of smokes. "He tell you anything else. Does the girl remember anything? He give us a positive ID to run with?"

"Slow down cowgirl." Tig cannot keep himself from butting in. He tends to lead with a one-track mind. "We've got a two hundred k deficit hanging over our heads. We miss this payment and we lose access to our supply. Do we really, really want to be out there wasting time trying to track down 'Whodunit'?"

"Fuck that. Do you really need to take a vote on this?" Schuyler speaks calmly despite her use of profanity to prevent the anger she feels from influencing her voice or coloring her judgement. "This shouldn't even be a discussion. How about this? I'm going to look for the sick bastard. The question is: who's coming with me?"

"I get it, alright, I do. I just don't like putting my ass on the line for some outsider. Clay, Oswald doesn't give a shit about SAMCRO!"

Clay taps the end of his cigar into an ashtray. "You know when people get jammed up in this town they don't go to the cops. They come to us."

"That's right boys," Chibs muses aloud.

"And that means something to me. I don't know. Maybe I've got something to prove with this guy. That's my shit! So, if anyone wants to pass on this…"

Everyone at the table expresses their approval uniquely. Bobby is able to find his seat comforted by the thought of being able to right a wrong. No sooner does Juice agree does Schuyler offer him a fist bump. Chibs takes a long drag to blow smoke directly into Tig's face, stating, "No way, I'm in!"

Tig smirks back at the table callously. "Can't leave me out. Guess we're doing the pigs' work for them."

Clay settles back in his chair. "Wouldn't be the first time. Tell me, what do we know?"

"We saw a couple of guys sporting Aryan ink at the carnival," Jackson offers. "Not sure they were Darby's guys."

"Macon woods is right on the Lodi border. Darby's got a meth shack a couple of miles from there."

Bobby shakes his head exasperatedly tossing his shaggy hair. "Rape as retaliation."

Jackson confirms his thought. "Certainly, in the Nord wheelhouse."

"Tap into the SAWJA database," Clay directs his instructions towards Juice, "find out which Nords get hard for underage pussy."

Tig, wanting to make up for his resistance, offers his own skill set. "Bobby and I will go after Darby."

Schuyler pounces on the opportunity to take initiative. "I volunteer to retrace the carnival. Maybe there were witnesses and they'll be more willing to talk with someone not in uniform."

Jackson shows her his support. "Me and Chibs will back you up."

Clay sets them loose. "Let's get to work!"

Unfortunately, they get no further than the bar room. Half-Sack has come in from the garage to extend a warning. "Clay, Hale's parked outside. Said he wants to question anyone who was at the carnival."

"What?" – "Are you serious!"

"Goddamn it," Clay curses. "That third-rate Power Ranger isn't fit to enforce traffic tickets. Chibs, head out the front gate and wait for Jackson to reach out. Juice, I want you to take the prospect, go out the back door. I think the van is parked that way. Get off the lot until we need your statement. Gives us a card to hold onto."

Juice and Half-Sack leave out the back entrance and take the van unnoticed. At the same time, Chibs was permitted to leave after he confirmed his alibi with Half-Sack's. The same alibi that had been fabricated for them to meet the Irish at the docks. Everyone who is left exits the clubhouse to approach the patrol vehicles as a unit.

Schuyler strategically walks at the back of the procession intent on sizing up the unwelcome introducers before they have a chance to assess her. Peering between the shoulders of her ranking officials, Schuyler catches sight of a police car and a green jeep with a police light bar superimposed atop it. The vehicles take up four parking spaces. She counts three policemen and reads Sheriff's Deputy on a very shiny badge on the central man's chest by the time the two groups meet head on.

Clay gains the officers' attention while subtly making a public announcement that there are authority figures on the property. "End of the month already? I know we're your last stop Hale. Gotta meet quotas somehow."

"We're investigating a sexual assault." Said Deputy is acquainted with the local MC. He isn't affronted by Clay's familiarity. "I need to question your guys who were at the carnival yesterday. If they are not here, get them here. Now."

"You think a Son had something to do with it?" Jackson asks, getting in Hale's face. His goal is to intimidate. Hale doesn't back down.

Understanding she will be taken into questioning alongside half of the club, Schuyler decides when and how to make herself known. She separates herself, so the policemen can clearly see her. "How about a Daughter? Morning officers. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance. The name's Schuyler. I'm new around here."

The officers are easily distracted by the female voice speaking over the men who normally dominate the premises. They search for the source, expecting to see the designated matriarch stomping towards them in expensive heels. Rather they are shell shocked to find the young blonde stepping up to them with imperceptible authority. Hale is none too shy when looking Schuyler up and down in a mixture of intrigue and utter confusion when presented with a woman wearing a vest. The same vest that for his entire life he has known to be under the sole ownership of men.

Schuyler puts her hands on her hips to open the vest wider and invite prying eyes. It is as if she is daring the officers to reach out and touch her in front of plentiful witnesses. "I'd be happy to vouch for my guys. You see, we were too busy eating day old corn dogs and getting sick on the tea cups to cause any sort of mischief."

Hale collects himself. "Half of your guys have violent crimes on their rap sheet. Just following logic."

Jackson scoffs. "Wasn't it just last week four Oakland cops were busted for prostitution and rape. Logic tells me we should be asking where your dick was last night."

Clay wags a taunting finger. "And don't say, 'in your mama'."

The motorcyclists laugh, but Hale presses on unfazed. "Officers Mann and Fain will be taking your statements. Could take hours."

"I'm trying to run a business here."

"We can do it here. At the station house. Wherever you wanna do it." Hale decides to reveal how acquainted he truly feels with the MC. "And don't say 'in your mama'."

"How considerate," Schuyler sighs.

The officer identified as Fain points to Schuyler. "I'm going to start with you."

"Would that make you happy, sweetheart?" Schuyler teases. The tan skinned officer nods emphatically. "Then I'd be happy to oblige!"

The second officer, Mann, continues imposing on Clay where Hale left off. "You should treat your guests to some coffee."

Bobby offers, "Do you want to get my statement out of the way while you're waitin' around?"

"That won't be necessary," Mann says.

"One at a time. Let's us play out the classic 'good cop/bad cop' dynamic," Fain says.

Schuyler remains with the officers who take her statement at the patrol car. The rest opt to stand inside the garage. The coffee machine manages to be turned on in the office but only Bobby pours himself a glass. Standing underneath one of the rolling doors, alternating between propping against walls and stalking like animals trapped within their terrain, the ring leaders watch their newest sibling get grilled for information. They can't help admiring the quality of her performance. Jackson voices what each of them is privately thinking. "She's a natural."

They watch as Schuyler laughs at every joke the male officers make during their questioning. She never lets on how bored she is of their dry humor and, more importantly, she never once touches either of them. Nor does she lean into their personal space or attempt to make herself appear smaller in stature. She doesn't need to. She charms them without having to lift a finger or demean herself to please them. Tig balks, "She's okay."

Once finished, Schuyler leads the policemen to the office where they are provided with coffee. The badges proceed to take a break which is clearly a tactic to slow the interviews. When they try to collect their second interviewee, Clay conveniently remembers Juice was in attendance and makes a show of calling him as Bobby is escorted away. On the phone, Clay orders Juice to return to TM and Half-Sack to track Hale's whereabouts for the rest of the day. By the time Bobby is finished being questioned and the cops enter their second coffee break, two hours' of daylight have been lost.

"I can't believe these jackasses are taking another coffee break," Schuyler complains from atop an empty oil barrel.

"Total jerkoffs," Clay surmises. He directs his next statement at the Sergeant. "Hale must know we're looking for the guy. We're going to be here all day."

"Why didn't you say so. Two double tranqaccinos coming up." Tig disappears into the cramped office and presses the power button on the coffee pot. While it pours, he produces a clear plastic bag with two dozen white pills from his kutte. He shakes a few onto the counter and sets to work carefully crushing them with the closet available utensil - a tea spoon.

Bored of batting her eyes to gain favor with the police, Schuyler hops down from her perch. Inside the open office door, Tig's taller frame prevents her from entering further.

She rests her back against the countertop and crosses her ankles. She stands close. Their arms nearly brush together, but not quite, and she leans over to watch his grease covered hands meticulously grind the pills to powder. A bit of a frown settles on her features causing her to look a few years older than her age. The frown is not because she disproves of the plan. The pills are merely a means to reach a goal. More so, she is disappointed in Tig for having had the narcotics readily available.

"You guys are a bad influence," she chastises. "Here I was trying to make friends."

"Those are not the friends you want to make," Tig says while turning to mock her. It isn't until he locks eyes with her that he realizes how close she is, and he faces the pot again. He scrapes the powder into his hand and brings the pot to his face, mixing it with the drink. He manages to make his next words sound like an apology; possibly for the stance he took during the meeting, more likely for having taken every opportunity he could to dismiss her since they had met. "Best you stick with us."

Schuyler's frown softens. She understands how meaningful such a statement is. Especially one coming from Tig who had been the most critical of her. She almost mistakes the appearance of redness on his neck creeping up to his face for a blush but knows that simply cannot be the case. "Just as well. I hate uniforms."

Clay stomps in, shuffling past Schuyler on his way behind the desk, to check on the progress of their escape plan. Tig uses the distraction as an opportunity to brush the edge of his shirtsleeve against Schuyler's shoulder as he tips the coffee pot towards Clay. He knows jerking away from her could lead to suspicion, so he convinces himself the contact is necessary. "Looking at a twelve-hour nap."

"Nice."

Jackson is next to enter. He rests on the door frame. "They're coming for refills."

The two officers traipse through the garage, acknowledge Bobby and Jackson, and trade places with Schuyler who leaves the office when Tig invites them in. "Fresh pot boys."

Tig fills their cups and monitors them. Each takes a large gulp unsuspectingly. Satisfied, Tig innocently offers to pour Jackson a glass. "Jackson?"

"No, thank you," the Vice President waves away the offer. He smirks outside of the policemen's view.

"Juice should be here soon Clay," Tig updates. He sets the pot down and waits.

"Sometimes he gets lost," Clay attempts to joke.

Fain takes his second sip, feels his eyes close heavily, and collapses against the nearest wall. Luckily he doesn't hit his head too hard. Mann begins to rotate in response only to pass out from the same cause.

Tig instinctually checks for a pulse on Fain. "That was quick."

"They evidently don't have the same tolerance," Schuyler remarks crudely.

Clay checks for a pulse on Mann and pats him hard on the shoulder. Mann starts to snore. "Good to the last drop."

"This is so bad. And, illegal," Schuyler states for the record, but even she can't help the joy she feels at a plan successfully carried out.

"Po-Po on the flo'," Jackson halfheartedly mimics the start of a tune.

Tig cackles overtly leading the rest to easily joins in. Clay ushers them from the office to lock the newly sleeping captives inside, ensuring they won't be disturbed – or found – until it suits him.

Outside, Bobby is catching Juice up on the situation. "Get on the horn," Clay demands of Juice. "Anything you can find out about the Nords will help. Head out with Bobby," he instructs Tig. "Find Darby. We're going to go about this the right way. Get clearance on this perp before we nail him to the wall."

The group divides. Before any of the bikes leave however, Tig engages with Juice. He waves the bag of pills in front of his face. "Put these in my box."

"What are they?" Juice asks, already opening the bag for a more intimate inspection.

"They're vitamins, vitamins," Tig jokes as he straps on his helmet.

Schuyler clicks her tongue at the Sergeant. "Don't lie to the child. He'll believe you."

The bikes depart, leaving no one to witness Juice swallow one of the pills, planning to pace himself, and pocket the bag in his vest before going to find his computer.

For once, Schuyler has a motorcycle tailing her. She finds Jackson in her rearview when the carnival comes into view. The pop up is nearly empty aside from Hale's green jeep and the half dozen carnival ride operators surrounding it. Hale stands inside the main entrance gathering statements.

Before they left, Jackson phoned Chibs and the two agreed to meet outside the main entrance. Chibs is parked in the grass under twin trees where he can easily keep an eye on the Deputy. He has since been joined by the prospect, though the rookie isn't on his white motorcycle. For an unknown reason, Half-Sack is riding on a child's sized dirt bike half the size and less than half the weight of Chibs' motorcycle. They are sitting in silence waiting to be joined by the expected parties.

"You didn't tell me you had the kind of walking around money to hit up Toys-R-Us." Schuyler rolls to a stop on Half-Sack's left. She kills the engine and holds the heavy machine up with her legs while Jackson stops between the two other men.

"It's what was in easy reach." Half-Sack tries to play off her comment, but it's evident he feels humiliated, having been forced to travel on a knock off. He faces the Vice President to submit his report and hopes to be repaid in sympathy.

He isn't. "Hale started at St. Thomas and came straight here. He's been talking to the carnies for over an hour."

"Nice going numbnuts. Stay on him."

Dejected, the prospect puts on his helmet feeling ridiculous for doing so. He doubts a fall at this height or going at the bike's top speed of a measly twenty-five miles an hour would do him any real damage. He looks up to the two seasoned members with hopeful eyes behind his flashy shades. "Hey, you guys think you could double up. Let me take one of your bikes?"

Jackson fixes the boy with a deadpan expression. "Not unless he grows tits."

Chibs hasn't stopped smiling since Half-Sack showed up on the toy bike. "Big tits. Huge tits." He catches Jacksons' hand on a downward high-five.

Half-Sack turns to Schuyler in slow motion and tilts his head to one side like a puppy begging to be let out into the yard. She jerks her handle bars in his direction to taunt him. "Touch him and you lose a hand."

"It's a guy?" Half-Sack asks lamely. He's never heard someone refer to a motorcycle as male. It doesn't occur to him he's never spoken to a women with a motorcycle.

"Isn't yours?"

Half-Sack looks down on the moped in place of his Harley. His question is asked at a barely audible volume. "Why, is that bad?"

Schuyler flashes her teeth through a Cheshire grin. "You tell me!" She looks out onto the scene as Hale climbs into his jeep and knows it's the perfect excuse for Half-Sack to escape without persecution. She waves him on. "He's going."

The prospect leaves the trees' shade to follow Hale at a distance. Schuyler rights her bike upon dismount. She pins her hair behind her ears with the help of her Ray Bans. She follows the two men into the carnival grounds with a plan to conduct an interrogation of their own.

Jackson approaches the first carnie he sees with a confident swagger. Schuyler and Chibs trail him at a close distance hovering over either shoulder. Each stands proud like a guardian angel. Jackson holds up a recent photograph of Oswald's daughter given by Oswald himself. "See this girl last night?"

"Who are you," a man with comical and discolored facial hair to rival the best of clowns retorts. He sounds bored and doesn't glance at the picture.

Chibs rocks up to Jackson's left. "Concerned citizens. The hell did you say to that cop."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" The carnie takes a step away to avoid confrontation.

Jackson grabs the man by his open shirt to stop him. The rest of the carnies see Jackson put hands on one of their own and they gather close to determine the cause.

"This girl was raped last night less than a mile away." Schuyler spits venom. "The pervert responsible is gonna need more than a slap on the wrist."

A new rider operator makes his voice heard. "Suppose you think you're man enough to deliver the punishment."

"I reckon I have more balls than any one of you. Considering you pussies ain't doing shit to point me in the right direction. Would that be on account of your protecting somebody?"

The first carnie counters in an attempt to intimidate the lone female. "Watch who you sling accusations at bitch."

"The lady is askin' you a question, Captain Spaulding," Jackson rebuts. "Shit like this doesn't happen in our town which points to an outsider."

"And there's not much more outsiders than you Muppets," Chibs grimaces.

A circle of carnies, some in casual clothes and some partially dressed in colorful costumes, crowds the motorcyclists. They are aware they are outnumbered two to one, but the statistic doesn't stop the SOA members from turning their backs on each other. The goal is to guard each other's six as much as it is to prevent a surprise attack from behind.

Jackson discloses he is carrying, egging the carnies on. "We can go that way if you want."

Amidst the crowd, Schuyler hears a man call her out specifically. "I don't know about this guys. Goldilocks looks like she can take a punch."

Schuyler spots the man from the dunking booth. His blotchy face is recognizable without the clown makeup. He appears to have escaped the encounter with the club with minimal injuries and demonstrates his feeling of invincibility. "Is Ronald McDonald lookin' to find out?" Her fingertips brush her throwing knives. A blade catches the reflection of the sun. She hears Chibs make similar threats no doubt with his hand grasping his gun.

"Alright, alright," the first carnie says to keep a brawl from breaking out. "I'll tell you what I told the cop. All my guys were here powering down rides, chaining up booths. Security guards your town hired 'tell you the same thing. Happy?"

Jackson frowns, seemingly having reached a dead end. He catches Schuyler's eye over his right shoulder, and they nod in agreement. The trio turns collectively and walks through the circle of clowns on their way to the next stop in search of answers.

Schuyler winks threateningly at the obese carnie. "Next time honey. Promise."

Their next option is to track down the local Sheriff. Which isn't difficult since Jackson knows the man's routine. He can be found at the local barber shop getting a shave by Floyd at this time every Sunday.

The bikes roll into the town center and nearly squeeze into a single parking space. Chibs acts as look out while Schuyler follows Jackson inside. The entrance and extending wall is made entirely of glass windows that face the street. Their goal is to discuss business with a man who has been on Clay's payroll for the better part of twenty years.

"Give us a minute Floyd," Jackson requests the elderly barber. Schuyler assumes he owns the shop since his name is posted above the door.

"I'll give you two." The lean man rights the chair of the client he had been working with and taps his fist gently against Jackson's. He meanders out onto the pavement.

"Jesus Christ. My one peaceful moment of the day," the frail man in the chair grumbles irritably. He wipes at the excess shaving cream on his chin with the bib tucked into his tan shirt collar. He appears to be of a short stature and hardly has a hair to brush into a combover. He is dressed in his police uniform and his badge is dotted with specks of shaving cream, so he must be considered on duty. The perks of protecting a small town. Extended lunch breaks are one of them.

He realizes Schuyler is with Jackson and gawks. "And what in the Sam Hell are you supposed to be?"

"I'm my brothers' keeper."

"She's the new transfer," Jackson acknowledges. Schuyler is surprised the club mentioned a transfer, even to crooked cop. With a simple sentence, she learns how deep the Sheriff must be. "You'll be seeing a lot more of her."

Unser's reply is as crabby as his personality. "I've seen some strange things in my time, but I'm sure even with your charming personality, you'll be just as much a pain in my backside as the rest of 'em."

"We're checking in. Need to know where the PD is at with the Oswald case," Schuyler inquires, wanting to move introductions along.

"Jackson," Unser ignores her. Evidently he has been expecting to hear from the club on this issue. "Do you have any idea how much heat I'm getting on this? Clay wants me to get Hale on board? For that to happen, to even have a chance, I'm going to need you guys," Unser gives Schuyler a sideways glance, "and gal, to trust me to handle this one. If I do anything to compromise this case…"

Schuyler smiles politely. A smile reserved for law enforcement. "'Guys' works fine for me and there are new cards in play."

"We're not asking you to compromise," Jackson replies with equal charisma. "Just tell us what you already know."

Unser wipes his face again while looking uncertainly between the patches. "Got nothing. No witnesses, no suspects. Only one who knows anything is the girl, and she says she's got no memory of it. Even if she did, Karen won't let anyone near her."

"Poor things," Schuyler mutters.

"Can't say I blame her. I'd probably do the same under similar circumstances."

"A'ight. Back to the grind," Jackson forfeits. He makes a move towards the windowed exit.

"Jax! You guys cannot screw me on this. If I don't catch this rapist, I'll be the one put on trial. That's bad for all of us."

"Don't worry chief," Schuyler teases. She ignores his plea much like he ignored her question. "We'll catch him."

On main street, Chibs gets off of a phone call. "Juicy's intel came back. Pinned one of the Aryan's from the carnival with half a dozen sex crimes. Clay wants us to meet him in Pope. Got the address."

"He with Darby?" Jackson mounts his bike.

"Darby says no, but Clay wannae sure. Says we're going in carrying."

Schuyler adjusts her sunglasses. "BYOWeapons?"

"Aye." Chibs turns the key on his bike and leads the trio towards the neighboring town.


	6. Carnival, pt 2

**Author's Notes: **

_TW:_ Mentions of rape of a minor and mutilation. Apologies for my forgetting to include a warning for the last chapter, but for obvious reasons the warnings are more relevant for this chapter. I'll try my best to keep on top of them, but keep canon in mind.

_Special notice:_ I realized after posting chapter 5 that I was missing a certain key feature/mention that reappears in this chapter. I also changed dialogue in a separate scene in chapter 5 that I feel makes the story read as more original (and the chapter is now a bit longer!). I highly recommend giving chapter 5 a reread and it will be updated by the end of the day! (Keep in mind this is an ongoing WIP!)

Hello and welcome back! I'm uploading a few days early because I have course work to attend to over the next few days. Plus, I wanted to capitalize on the supposed Fanfiction boom of 2020 brought on by the crazy times we are living in! I hope you are safe, healthy, and behaving responsibly. Beyond that, I hope this instalment gives you a break from the world at large.

Instead of giving a chapter summary, I will tease that this is a crucial chapter which marks a turning point in the series! If you haven't made up your mind about Schuyler as a character than this chapter will surely make up your mind for you. And, for those who have been following the tags of this story, you will get a taste of what is to come. If you haven't been paying close attention, hopefully there will be a pleasant surprise in store for you!

Now please Enjoy...

They find themselves meeting up with Clay, Bobby, and Tig who are crouched at the edge of a tree line. Kuttes were left with the bikes as a necessary precaution. The club has internalized the habit of expecting the worse when walking into unknown territory. There's no reason the club should be tied to criminal allegations should the situation go awry.

The group stares at a white two-story house with a wrap-around porch. Men of similar profiles to the suspect at the carnival can be seen on both sides of the property. A few have drinks in their hands, and all are immersed in idle conversation. Music is emanating from within the home, confirming the existence of additional residents, to drown out the barking of dogs coming from uncovered kennels in the backyard.

"Looks like a full house." Jackson shucks off a gun bag onto the ground.

Clay eyes the men on the front porch intently. "Guys in the front are armed. Not sure about the ones in back."

"They're carrying," Schuyler confirms. She is closest to the men beside the kennels. She knows what the dogs are used for.

"You three clear the kennels. We'll handle the lookouts. Don't discharge. We don't want anyone knowing we're coming."

The group splits down the middle. Schuyler finds herself taking point. She steps lightly amongst the short trees. Chibs and Tig follow closely, much less concerned with their foot placement.

Two more entrances to the house are revealed on the back side of the building and there are three men with their backs to the trees. One is sliding silver bowls into the kennels while trying to avoid being licked and jumped on. "Keep to their backs," Schuyler advices, voice hushed. "Let me go first."

There are four kennels lined together and a pair of pit-bulls of varying ages in each. The animals are of good health, considering they're confined to the outdoors. Schuyler deduces the owner is in the business of selling the dogs as opposed to fighting them outright.

Schuyler walks up carefully and quietly, yet with conviction. She makes a determination; she has a right to be on the property. And so, she does. The dogs were yapping away beforehand which was fortunate. The men don't realize when a puppy of eight months tries to earn Schuyler's attention from within its gated enclosure.

Schuyler reaches the first kennel. She's within two of the men's line of sight and stops beside the third, who has his eyes fixated straight down the long row of pens, before any of the men notice her. She sticks her hand through the circular barbs for the puppy to smell her. She bends slightly and speaks at a conversational volume. "You just want attention, don't you?"

"The hell are you doing here?"

"You the Chesters' granddaughter?"

"They're silly, aren't they?" Schuyler asks the dog. She straightens and brings her hands towards her hips, but she is actually reaching for the gun in the waist line of her jeans. "Who's going to be a good boy for me and get into the cage?"

Appearing, Schuyler's backup pounces on their targets. Chibs crashes into the first resident's back crushing his face into the fencing. He pins the man's arms behind his back until he jiggles the gate open. He manhandles the resident inside with the dogs without intent to injure. Tig, on the other hand, confiscates the second man's gun. Tig discards it and punches the resident, bruising his left cheek. Then he yanks open a separate pen and kicks the second man to the ground. The resident rolls inside passively. Schuyler draws her own weapon and pistol whips the third man beside her, knocking him unconscious in one fell swoop.

Tig assists her in carrying the unconscious man into a third cage. The dogs jump on the men in search for attention and food but are otherwise more interested in the new faces on the other side of the fencing. Tig huffs a sigh of exertion when locking the gate. He rattles it making sure it won't open. "Nice work."

Schuyler replies coyly, "I certainly do what I can.".

With the lookouts out of commission, the three scale the house where they meet the rest of the party at the front door. Three more residents are in a similar state of unconsciousness laying on the porch but are otherwise unharmed.

Clay throws an AK from the gun bag to Tig. Despite observing the lack of a vital element, Tig receives the weapon in midair. "There's no clip!"

"What, expect a job to go off without a hitch?"

"Fucking Juice!"

"Back door. Counting twenty."

Schuyler picks up the countdown. She retraces her steps and leaves Tig at one of the back entrances. She leads Chibs to the second entrance and finishes the count with her gun steadily aimed over his shoulder. Three, two, one.

Chibs kicks in the door. It opens into an alcove. Across the way, Tig kicks in a twin door. Schuyler charges in first to clear rooms of residents. Ultimately, finding none.

She hears Jackson kick in the front door several rooms ahead of her. Shouts of surprise arise from the sitting room where a majority of the residents are congregated. She follows Jackson's voice through the house.

By the time Schuyler reaches the living room the truth of the residency has been discovered. There's roughly twelve men, each of whom are over thirty, crowded into a living room decorated with doilies and plastic covered furniture.

There are framed photos of cats and children on the walls contrasting sharply with the men who have shaved heads and sit about wearing blue jeans and wifebeaters. The man in the center of the cluster sticks out the most. He wears a white collar and holds a brown leather-bound book. Not one of the men draws a weapon. They merely recoil from the bombardment on the house.

Tig raises his AK vertically, lacking in ammunition, and gestures with it at the residents in a comical fashion. "Bang?"

—

On the porch, the groups gather to clear the air. It is discovered that Yates, the man Juice's intel determined could be responsible for the rape, is a recovering sex addict.

"I haven't acted out sexually in over three years. All these men will vouch for me. I'm a saved man." The club walked in on an SAA meeting.

Clay has the decency to apologize. He dutifully shakes Yates' hand. "Looks like we got some bad information. Sorry for the misunderstanding."

Jackson shoulders the gun bag. "Forget our little mistake, we'll forget about mom's illegal mutts."

"We will?" Schuyler raises her voice. The President and Vice President give her identical faces of warning. She raises her hands in surrender. She understands there is nothing she can do that wouldn't affect the club directly.

The MC files off the porch, rather politely given the circumstances, only to hear the well-meaning but misguided words of a priest trailing after them.

"It's not too late for you men. Sister, you know this isn't the true path to follow." He is waving the book emphatically in his right hand.

Schuyler jumps past the stairs onto the dirt path. "Barking up the wrong tree there, Padre."

"Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior can save you. Save you all! He can deliver you from all your transgressions…"

"Appreciate your zeal preacher," Clay raises his hands in demonstration. "But my transgressions…all I've got left."

"A-men," Bobby calls from the grass.

One by one each of the male members joins in a growing chant, sarcastically singing, "Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya. Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…" Chibs walks backwards up the grassy hill and pretends to conduct the song with his hands uncoordinatedly.

"You boys think you're real cute, dontcha?" Schuyler asks.

"Oh yeah," Jackson smirks. He leans over to wrap an arm around Schuyler's shoulders bringing her into a tight side hug. "Especially me."

—

Clay stomps his way into the clubhouse with several members in tow. Jackson peeled off from the pack to go check on his son who is at the hospital under Gemma's supervision. Chibs met up with Half-Sack to pump out a few hours in the garage. The rest of the group is trailing Clay in his search for Juice. His plan is to give the man who failed to ready the AKs for the bust a firm talking to.

Crossing the bar room, Clay makes a request. "Bobby, I want you to go check in on the pigs. You should be the only man they see when they rejoin reality."

"Agreed." Bobby has proven himself to be the most competent when conversing with police in the past.

Inside the chapel, Juice is lying face down on the floor, unconscious and steadily drooling. He is surrounded by the very same white pills Tig entrusted in his care.

Tig kneels beside the man in question. Instead of granting his fellow patch the courtesy of checking for a pulse, like he had for the policeman, Tig concerns himself with salvaging what he can of the narcotics, though most are partially crushed and scattered about the floor.

"What an idiot," Tig grumbles.

"He probably thought it was speed," Bobby surmises.

Schuyler wears a face usually reserved for tired mothers. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"At least he's stationary."

Clay towers over Juice's unconscious form. A dozen punishments flash through his mind before deciding it would be better left up to professionals. "I want something very special."

"Ohhh yeah," Bobby agrees, pressing the heel of his boot into Juice's back. "I'll get my scissors."

"I'll get the diaper," Tig replies.

"We, have diapers?" Schuyler asks. She knows when a prank is brewing. She observes Tig's actions with interest whilst kneeling beside Juice. Meanwhile, the older members leave the room in discussion of an alibi for when the policemen arise.

"He's fine. Seen him come back from stronger shit," Tig unsympathetically comments. From within the bottom drawer, he retrieves an adult sized diaper and a pink pacifier as opposed to the official club patches that had once been pulled from the same cabinet.

"No doubt trying to keep up with the likes of you." Schuyler checks Juice's airway and pulse. "Again, the diaper?"

Tig throws his materials on the Redwood table. He also rearranges several chairs against the back wall. "Last prospect bailed two months in. Couldn't sack up. We had some fun with Kippy; made sure he wouldn't spook come the first hurdle. Think he's got a real shot. What's say you?"

"Chit-chatting now, are we?"

"Shut the hell up Tex!" Tig snaps back. Though the words are not packed with the same ferocity they once were.

"Better. And the binky?"

"Someone's always carrying a baby around. Help me out."

The pair lift Juice's limp body onto the table. Tig removes the Hispanic man's club vest and instructs Schuyler to empty his pockets. Anything remaining on his person is fair game and is to be treated as collateral for the club. Collateral to be confiscate because an "employee" didn't fulfill his role in a job.

Bobby returns with a pair of scissors from his toolbox in hand. They are strong enough to cut through steel wires – or, in the case of this club authorized punishment, clothes.

"Good news," Bobby announces disheartened, "5-0's still sleeping like a pair of piglets. I'll be sticking around past closing." He is neither concerned with the cleanliness of the cuts nor with the wellbeing of his younger brother's skin as he snips through the clothing a layer at a time starting at Juice's belt.

Tig picks up the pacifier and places it against Juice's mouth. The adult man, unconcerned with keeping up his manly appearance in his drug induced slumber, opens and closes his mouth around the pacifier like a bear trap. He sucks on the calming toy blissfully unaware of the world or the cruel individuals who loom over him planning his future humiliation.

Schuyler realizes the extent of the plan. "Who's volunteering to put the diaper on him?" Tig makes a sound of confirmation. "I don't want to imagine the atrocities you committed that would lead you to know how to put a diaper on an adult."

"Not surprising. No one's asking Tig to house sit." Bobby removes Juice's shoes and socks. "Can't trust him alone. No pets, no house plants, nothing with a motor."

"He looks like he'd have to fuck a cactus to learn not to touch 'em."

Tig takes the jab in stride. "I've changed plenty of diapers. Last I checked, my kids were still alive."

"Kids?" Schuyler asks, genuinely curious how such an event came to pass.

"When was the last time you checked?" Bobby asks.

"What month was Christmas?" Tig squints one eye as he pretends to do math in his head. "Two girls."

"Two?" Schuyler asks, as though one was already an overestimation.

"Dawn and Fawn."

"Was mama named Swan?" Schuyler gasps playfully, "Was she a fan of Louis Vuitton?"

"Mama was named over-barring snatch." Tig trades places at the table with Bobby to cover Juice with the diaper.

Schuyler finds a way to contribute when she spots a folded cardboard box behind the filing cabinets. Inside the cabinet, she searches for something to write with and a tool to attach her message with. She swipes up Bobby's scissors and cuts the box down to size. A perfect square she can use to make a sign.

On the cardboard, she writes uniformly in sharpie, 'Outgrew my Crib, Adopt Me'.

"Not bad," Tig comments while reading over her shoulder. He tilts his head to the side and grabs the marker from her. "Try this." He flips the sign over and writes, 'SLIGHTLY RETARDED CHILD/PLEASE ADOPT ME' in sloppy capital letters.

Schuyler catches herself laughing at the simplicity of the joke only to correct herself and Tig. "You know you're not supposed to say that."

Bobby hums his agreement. "You're not supposed to say a lot the of things we find ourselves saying around here. Find glue? A gun would work best. Really want the lesson to sink in."

"No glue. I found this." Schuyler flicks the rest of the cardboard box off the table to reveal a heavy-duty staple gun.

Tig is pleased. "Now you're talkin'."

"I'm only comfortable using it because staples are used in medical settings."

Bobby asks, skeptically, "How many staples have you drove into cats?"

"Are you crazy? I'd never use staples on an animal." She puts staples into each of the four corners of the sign straight through into Juice's chest. His body naturally responds but, due to the narcotics, the convulsions are slow, and he only jerks once.

Schuyler waits a beat and rubs her hand underneath the sign. "See, no blood. But there will be when he rips them out. You want him to experience pain after he's awake. To prevent this sort of behavior from recurring, of course."

"Bobby, help me load him in the van. He can simmer there until we find somewhere to drop him off."

"I'm thinking outside the police station," Schuyler recommends. "Let Hale find him tomorrow." While the men carry Juice out the door, bumping him into an agreed upon number of obstacles to cement the punishment, Schuyler's prepaid chimes. Her phone reveals to her how late in the day it is. "Hello?"

It's Jackson who is still at the hospital. "Sky? Are you at TM?"

"Yeah. Most of the guys are, too."

"Grab who's free. Gemma got the intel for us. Oswald's daughter remembers everything. It's the clown from the dunk booth."

"No shit. Karma's an angry bitch." Schuyler doesn't try to hide her enthusiasm mixed with a renewed sense of rage. A day spent searching for the repulsive man when the answer was right under their noses. She'd even faced off with him once earlier in the day. She has complete confidence the carnie will not survive another encounter with her club – or with her. "Do you want to meet us there?"

She can hear her eagerness matched in Jackson's voice over the phone. "You're closer. Better not start without me."

—

Six motorcycles and a black van form a barricade against the carnival's main entrance. The bikes idle. Their riders turn the clutches intermittently for a time to ensure they will be welcomed at the gate. Then the troop, with Jackson at the forefront, marches inside.

Sure enough, in the center of the brightly lit carnival marked by a tall Ferris wheel sits a circle of ride operators. They had been drinking steadily and passing smokes between themselves before the makeshift militia arrived. Drawn by the motorcycles, the carnies counter the club's approach. They are unaware of the hellfire about to rain down upon them.

Jackson taunts his opponents, drawing them out to meet him on equal footing. "Hear you guys are harboring a fugitive."

The clown who faced off with Jackson earlier in the day responds in the same flat voice. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Citizens' arrest."

The two groups clash. A mixture of motor oil and smudged face paint. The scene is a picture of controlled chaos. It's almost too convenient that there is a carnie for each Son. The men naturally pair off and fists fly.

Clay and Chibs deploy a similar tactic, each acting deliberately. They take no pleasure from the brawl. They are purely completing an assigned task as part of their career requirements. Jackson, however, is punching blindly. He gets on top of a man and takes out his aggressions over the last week, laying them into the stranger's face. Bobby's movements are similar. Unaware of who the true culprit is, he views anyone hiding the man as responsible in the child's rape. Despite his lack in physical prowess, Bobby uses his size to overpower those who stand between him and his target.

It's difficult to gage who is enjoying themselves more between Tig and Half-Sack. The former, though much older, enters the fray with as much enthusiasm as the later. Tig dodges a blow only to receive another to the jaw. Red trickles from a corner of his mouth. He wipes it with the back of his hand and is overcome with bloodlust. He gains the upper hand and, with his victim driven to his knees, Tig wraps him in a head lock. Driven by his most base instinct, Tig bites into the side of the stranger's neck and rips the flesh there like a wolf tearing tender meat from its' prey. Half-Sack, it would seem, is simply having a good time. He can hardly believe he has been allowed to be part of a real fight. He's more tired than he expected to be. Otherwise, this is exactly like the bar fights he's seen on television. To him, taking part in a show of strength is a sign of the club's acceptance of him.

Schuyler reframes herself from joining the fray. Though not for a lack of desire on her part. She methodically darns her black leather riding gloves as she overlooks the scene unfolding. Adrenaline envelops every nook and cranny of her body through a form of contact high as she not so patiently waits for a man to stick out. The rapist. The lowlife responsible for harming an innocent child. The one who, in her view, deserves to be beaten down.

A new body emerges from the tangled mass of carnival rides. A man sprints past Schuyler to tackle Jackson to the ground. This man is not the culprit but gives Schuyler a clue as to where the criminal may be hiding.

Clay picks his head up in the middle of the onslaught. He sees two more carnies join the fray. Searching for an end to the carnage, he shouts an order before sparing off with a fresh opponent. "Schuyler, Chibs, find him."

Chibs hears the order and lands one last blow to his victim, dropping the stray man in the dirt. He locates Schuyler who points outwards away from the commotion.

A few yards from the center, a train of trailer homes is segregated from the rest of the grounds by orange traffic cones and an old rope. Schuyler and Chibs walk down the line on parallel sides until they find one with an unlocked screen door and a light on inside.

Schuyler shoots her hand out to prevent Chibs from entering. She indicates to him that he should be silent and wait outside. He tries to protest. He isn't given a chance to before she opens the door and walks up the inclined steps.

The trailer consists of a bed, a sink and mini fridge meant to stand in for a kitchen, and a closed sliding door blocking the toilet from the rest of the area. When she steps inside, the rickety door is opened with some force, as it is broken on its hinge, and a very manly smell wafts into the room.

The red-faced carnie, wearing too-big jeans halfway around his thighs which he yanks up by a belt, stumbles out of the closet-sized bathroom. His body uncoordinatedly bumps into the door frame and he knocks one of many empty glass beer bottles into the sink to steady himself. The bottles have been recently emptied over a short period of time.

"Hey honey." The words take time to penetrate his alcohol riddled mind. "Didn't I tell you I'd be seeing you again."

He starts sluggishly at the voice and doesn't recognize her at first. He slouches forward to get a better view on account of his vision blurring at the corners of his eyes. "The fuck are you doing here, gnash?!"

Schuyler's voice is soothing. "I've been looking for you. Hoping we might have some fun together."

He remembers her. "The biker whore. Finally came – to your senses. Better come, cum in before, you change your mind – ha, ha." His speech is slow, and hiccups act as his punctuation. He reaches for a bottle. Even though it is empty he brings it to his lips.

"Do you want to play with me, honey?" Schuyler's actions are calculated. She crosses her body with her arm. She trails her fingers over her waistline, lifting her shirt a mere inch. It isn't even enough to reveal skin, but the suggestion of what lies beneath gains the man's attention. She ghosts her hand down her hip lulling him into a trance. Then she stealthily frees a knife. "Let's play."

The tip of the weapon connects with the bottle. Glass shatters in the carnie's hand and falls into the sink. He curses in pain, clutching at his wrist. Blood pulses from his split palm.

Schuyler darts towards him. Distracted, she is able to knee him in the crotch, causing him to face her. Her elbow connects with the man's face in an upswing, dislocating his nose. She uses her full weight to shove him against the sink. The wind is knocked from him.

Chibs, reacting to the sound of shattering glass, ducks his head inside in time to witness Schuyler's assault on the perpetrator. As Schuyler pulls a zip tie from her vest, he asks, rather dazzled, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Schuyler forfeits the zip tie. She searches for something to tie the clown's meaty hands together with.

"That's not going to work." The carnie struggles against the countertop. He's both trying to sober, and escape Schuyler's strangle hold. Schuyler heaves him up to slam his chest against the counter a second time. "Use this."

Chibs produces a piece of rope Schuyler assumes he acquired outside.

"Your turn." She invites Chibs to tie the perpetrator's hands.

Chibs steps up to take over her grasp and tries to ignore their proximity. "Found something you can't do."

"I was getting my CPR badge the day they taught us knot tying."

"Shite." The two share in a laugh as Chibs hog ties the rapist. There's enough slack to act as a leash which Schuyler is sure to use while Chibs grabs the carnie by the right shoulder and arm.

Together, they fill in for executioners, escorting the man back to where the fight is ensuing.

Schuyler whistles but only Clay pays her any mind. "Clay, we got him!"

Clay gives orders to retreat. Tig spits blood, a mixture of carnie and his own, into the air. He appears to be marking his territory and looks much like a rabid dog. Half-Sack, being the youngest, has reached his second wind and gives one last kick to the stomach of the man he had been tussling with. Then he hollers like he just got off one of the rides nearby. Jackson has to be dragged off one of the carnies by Bobby. Only them does he realize the fight is meant to be over. There are half a dozen men on the ground holding their ribs and faces or staggering to their feet in pain. He throws his arms over his head and yells victoriously. The street fight was as much an alternative to therapy as it was an act of retaliation.

At the vehicles, Tig catches up with Schuyler and Chibs. The eldest finishes fastening a red bandana around the clown's head and shoves him inside the van. The rapist lands hard kicking and straining on the floor beside Juice who is as still as death.

"Who's idea was the nappy?" Chibs asks.

"Mine," Tig brags. He saddles up to peer in-between them at the carnie's face. "The damn heckler? Figures. Grade A asshole."

Schuyler, leaning on an open van door, makes a strange face. Like she is trying to keep from laughing. She catches Tig's eye but hers remain firmly on his blood-stained lips. "You have –." She points a finger between their two mouths in demonstration. "Just there. Bit of, human flesh, just there."

Tig snarls, flashing his dyed teeth. "Wanna taste?"

Schuyler reels back exaggeratedly as if the suggestion were absurd. "I have no idea where that's been."

"What," Chibs throws into the triangular shape they form, "the blood or Tig's mouth?"

"Either." Schuyler slams the door shut. "Come on. We've gotta go." She leaves their laughter behind her knowing her grin could be construed as flirtatious or encouraging.

Oblivious, she misses the genuinely entertained expressions either man grants her. More notably however, she misses the look they exchange upon catching one another staring at her while she walks away. A peculiar look that causes them to grow quiet.

Then the two make hasty movements towards their bikes, equally cautious in their actions going forward.

—

Clay leads the pack a mile into Macon woods. He estimates this is roughly the location where the rape took place – in his town, under his watch, merely twenty-four hours ago.

The bikes park beside the van. When the engines are killed the woods are plunged into silence. The only noise to be heard is from a flock of crows passing over head and boots grinding fallen leaves into dark soil. The headlights on the van were left on. Their beams cast a commanding glow over the group's path that will lead them into a semi-circle clearing admist a clustering of thin trees.

Chibs and Tig wrestle the rapist from the van and march him into the clearing. They stand together, each holding an arm in place, and their faces are emotionless masks regardless of how much the carnie trembles and whines. The three stand in the improvised spotlight looking identical to how they would in a police interrogation room; despite the fact this man has lost the privilege to be read his rights or attend a fair trial. The carnie is temporarily blinded by the damning lights he is made to face and is as much ensnared by his captors' glares as he is bound by his bonds.

The ground suddenly increases in altitude beyond where the perpetrator is held. Schuyler and Half-Sack position themselves to loom at uneven distances up the slanted hill. Half-Sack postures, unsure of what to do with his hands. He periodically switches them between his pockets and holding them behind his back. He tries his best to look intimidating amongst his more experienced siblings. Schuyler, on the other hand, has her thumbs resting comfortably atop her chest. She's higher up the hill than Half-Sack and is on guard, ready to act if the carnie tries to escape.  
Clay, standing strong between the van and the clown, makes an off-handed remark in reference to the river of blood cascading down the perpetrator's haphazardly buttoned shirt. "Someone got sloppy."

"My bad Hoss." Under different circumstances, Schuyler would be proud of her accomplishment. However, she was meant to locate this man and deliver him unharmed. Her opinions of him got the better of her. "Won't happen again."

A second car approaches, and Schuyler admires the Benz for a second time in the same day. Oswald leaves his keys in the ignition and half walks, half jogs with his upper body jostling about as he approaches the scene.

"There's the sick fuck that raped your little girl," Clay says hollowly. Oswald doesn't hear him.

The once polished man no longer looks polished. He's missing an expensive watch and a tie which he could be expected to wear. His sleeves are rolled up past his forearms and sweat is beading on his brow. From his slacks, which have lost the crisp crease of an iron, he pulls a silver tool. He stops an arms' length from the captured criminal and threatens him. "Do you know what this is?"

The carnie struggles harder. Pleading through the clothe in his mouth with the man who looks out a place. The man who is his last chance for forgiveness.

"Cattle guys call it an Elise-maker. It's used to cut the balls off of bulls." The knife Oswald holds has a deep curve and has recently been sharpened.

"You want to go around behaving like an animal?" Schuyler speaks maliciously. "You'll be treated as an animal."

"Strip him."

Chibs and Tig unceremoniously remove the rapist's clothes. Most of the material pools at his ankles. Yet, his shirt is left open on his shoulders when both men reel back violently upon seeing more than a dozen red markings, which were obviously made by human fingernails, on the repulsive man's pudgy torso.

"Jesus," Elliot shouts, and the carnie cries matching the mourning father's volume.

Bobby turns away from the revealed wounds while Jackson's scowl deepens further. Schuyler doesn't have to be facing the man to know what is on his skin and physically feels relief over the fact that the youngest is standing where he cannot see the evidence of the deed either.

Clay is the most difficult to read. He gets on Oswald's level. "This is how you help your daughter now."

Oswald's breathing is labored. He inches forward and levels the tool in his hand with the criminal's exposed genitalia. He looks into the eyes of the man who violated his daughter but, when faced with the choice, all he is able to see is a man who is pleading for his life.

Clay's voice is sympathetic yet forceful. "What do you want to do here Elliot? We had a deal."

Oswald drops the tool. "I'm sorry." It lands in the dirt before he realizes he has made a decision. "I can't. I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I, I-"

"Don't be." Schuyler nods to Elliot. "It means you're a better man than he is."

Oswald staggers backwards at the woman's words and his eyes grow damp. He sprints towards his car unable to leave quickly enough.

Clay pulls out a glove from his jeans. He uses it to retrieve Oswald's tool careful to keep it unaltered. He offers the handle in Schuyler's direction. "Better make it count."

"Clay," the words seem to be heard over a great distance, "this is over."

Schuyler rolls her neck to steady herself as she glides down the hill.

"Schuyler, don't! You don't have to be the one to do it."

It's only after she takes the blade that she acknowledges Jackson's pleas. She meets his eyes from across the clearing. He's no longer scowling. His eyes are honest, asking her to cease.

"Guess this means I'm not the better man."

She spins the knife on the palm of her hand. Her vision narrows until she only sees the criminal. "Hey honey. I bet this isn't how you imagined spending the evening."

She weighs the weapon in her right hand – her surgical hand – then in her left where it will remain. She watches the scoundrel. Watches how the rapist's eyes follow the sharp object as she moves it from shoulder to crotch height. "It's unfair really. What with me being the last thing you see before you die. It's more mercy than a man like you deserves."

An inhumane scream is ripped from the carnie's chest cavity. The signal of the first incision. Sweat pours off his body in tides. His eyes bulge from their sockets as if there's an immense amount of pressure building that can only be released from his head.

Schuyler is vaguely aware of someone or something holding the flailing man still. After the initial outburst, she is able to block out the wails. She hones in on her craft. Her thumb pushes the blade easily in the direction it longs to go in until the amputation is complete.

The carnie's intact member and testicles find their completion among the dry leaves. Schuyler raises her blood smeared glove up to the barely conscious man's face to show him the tool drip in his own blood. Schuyler goes from holding the knife steadfast to pinching the end of the handle between two fingers. She slowly swings the blade back and forth in front of fast drooping eyelids.

"You're not going to get a cleaner incision from anyone else."

"Shit. Holy shit!" From the hillside, Half-Sack's hushed curses catch her attention and are enough to ground her in place. She sees him shield his eyes and jog towards the safe distance of the van upon the reveal of what can now legally be considered her weapon.

"Let him bleed out," she speaks clearly. Though the man has gone into shock and is half dead already. She drops the blade allowing it to land where it will. It lands inside the testicular sack. She takes a step backwards and places a foot on the dismembered penis. In one swift movement she reaches for the tool, rips it sideways through the flesh, and rises with the blade spinning on the palm of her left hand. The carnie's body, now a corpse, is dropped by its supports at her feet.

"I assume you'll be wanting this." She drops the tool in the open plastic bag Clay was holding out to her in preparation.

"It's safe to say, you've earned your wings," Clay says. She salutes him mockingly. "Bury him in the woods. Mark the grave. Pick those up and gift-wrap 'em. Post mark them to Oswald for a week out."

With the tool in Clay's possession, the group begins to move in tandem.

Schuyler walks out of the clearing, but stops when she feels Jackson's troubled eyes watching her. "It didn't have to go down this way."

"We both know that isn't true." Her eyes are remorseful in return. Not for her actions, but for having acted against him.

"Whaddaya mean?" Clay asks. It's a genuine question. "This was the plan."

"This was your plan." Jackson squares off with his President. "Whether Oswald had the stomach or not. Taking this gig was about blackmail."

Clay stuffs the weapon with Oswald's fingerprints safely inside his vest. "'Insurance' was a fortunate byproduct of my feeling charitable. The goal was always to make sure Oswald is sticking to the path that benefits this town. Benefits everyone. He just doesn't see it yet. We're going to help him see."

"Maybe keep the politics of it to yourself," Schuyler interjects. "Pretend like it was still about doing a positive deed. I stand by what I did and how I did it. But now you get to tell me what exactly it is we're holding over Oswald?"

"Almost every major business in Charming." Jackson's scowl resurfaces.

Clay gives a crooked grin. "That may be true. But let's start with housing insurance. His lumber yards. Keep these businesses in house where they belong."

"Goddamn it Clay. When I said I wanted to take the club in a new direction, this is not what I meant." Jackson draws closer in an attempt to minimize the amount of ears listening. "If you want my help leading this club, then you gotta keep me in the loop. If you can't do that we don't have trust. And if we don't trust each other, SAMCRO's got a real problem."

Clay sighs heavily. His speech is condescending at best. "If Oswald sells off his acres of land, housing developments will follow. Population rises, that means more cruisers. More state and federal eyes. Pretty soon we'll have a Starbucks and a McDonalds polluting Main and Charming goes mainstream. SAMCRO will gets left behind or worst yet squashed by the most dangerous gang of all. Old. White. Money."

Jackson sighs forcibly, pissed he wasn't informed of the full extent of the plan, but relents for the time being. It's Schuyler's turn to frown. "Now you both know."

As Clay stomps off, Jackson turns his attention to Schuyler. "This should have gone down different. Oswald should have never gotten involved."

"Can't change the past. We did do the right thing for that family. Maybe for others out there. It's the execution that needed a rewrite."

"The club can't keep going on like this. The shit he keeps dragging us into." Jackson's voice grows even lower than when he had been speaking to Clay. Schuyler steps closer to hear him out. "It's been going on for a minute. Before the factory got blown up. Before you landed here. I'm trying to get Clay to see it, but he isn't hearing me."

"The type of change you were talking about last week isn't going to take place overnight Jackson. Maybe you gave him leeway on this decision, and he'll hear your side of it next time?"

"Or maybe he's had more leeway than he can handle and I'm already too late to make changes."

Schuyler rolls her eyes. She's never been one to back down from a challenge. She has a special fondness for change because she was raised to believe that adaption is the key to survival. "I doubt it. Now that I've earned my seat at the table, maybe two blond heads put together is better than one."

From behind the van, a command disrupts the private conversation. "Hey Tex. You're holding us up."

"You sure did one hell of a job securing your spot. Clay believes your worth, but…You and Tig work things out yet?"

Schuyler looks over her shoulder in the direction he called for her. "Not sure yet. But you'll be the first to know. Will you go to see the kid tonight?"

"Gotta relieve Gemma. You should stop by. Everyone else has seen him."

Schuyler smiles teasingly. "You gonna invite me to Thanksgiving while you're at it?"

"Screw you. Forget I said anything."

"Its cool bro. I'll stop by one of these days after a shift. Give the kid my best."

Jackson is the last to leave along with a majority of the bikes. Schuyler, having created the body that needs to be buried on top of still being on probation with the club, was elected to stay behind. She finds Tig and Half-Sack standing beside the open van.

"That's dangerous shit they were spouting off." Tig glares after Jackson's taillights having only heard part of the conversation.

Schuyler nods her agreement unaware they have different culprits in mind. "Tell you what. I've got these handled."

"Are ya sure?" Tig holds out his hand as an offer to help.

"Let's get this over with. Maybe we'll still get a few hours of sleep if we do."

Schuyler grabs the shovels from the back of the van. Its Tig who, with the help of the prospect, drags the corpse another quarter of a mile into the woods. He picks a patch of dirt and Schuyler knows to take his word on where to dig the plot. She hands each man his own shovel and they dig well into the night.

They do not speak until the marker is over the grave. Walking back to the vehicles covered in dirt and leaves, they discuss briefly where to drop off Juice. The thrill of a prank having been replaced by business means this task has become yet another chore. Ultimately, the three decide to leave him behind a row of bushes in front of the local police station. Once he's placed where only one of his feet will be visible, and Schuyler takes a picture for evidence of the punishment, Half-Sack climbs into the van and the two patches mount their bikes. Turning on their headlights, no longer concerned with being seen, is their way of clocking out of the workday. The trio rides together for several minutes, but eventually they are made to part ways.

Tig changes gears with a flick of his wrist and travels under the posted speed limits, drifting through barren streets. Though he's feeling something akin to exhaustion he takes time to enjoy the solo ride. Alone on his bike with the road and his thoughts gives him valuable time to think.

He passes TM where he ditches the prospect. He travels what appears to be his usual route towards his less than stealer apartment complex except when he approaches the first four way stop he takes a left instead of a right. This is not by accident. He is merely heading somewhere besides his own bed tonight. His plan is to stay somewhere he feels arguably even more comfortable.

He arrives at a normal, if not dull, ranch-style house with the curtains drawn closed at every window. He ramps up the wraparound driveway, which lacks a car, that veers around to a carport nestled on the side of the house.  
Though the wall facing the sidewalk is solid, Tig parks his bike in an empty space behind a work bench to strategically (or paranoiacally) obstruct his bike from the view of anyone who would take a passing glance inside. The space is the exact width of his motorcycle. It is obvious the place is reserved for a bike. Tig's bike, to be exact. All the space lacks is a placard with his name on it.

Tig steps up to the side entrance of the blacked-out house. It's a building he knows well enough having spent almost as many nights here as he has spent in his own apartment. In fact, he has a key. He slides the key into place; activating the tumblers to unlock the door.

He slips stealthily inside and tries to close the door silently. He traverses the hallway and ends up in the living room. He meanders to the front of the house where he considers leaving his belongings on the entry table. Instead, he is surprised by a pair of hands reaching for him through the darkness. Calloused palms press into his chest shoving him against the front door. He opens his mouth to protest but is efficiently silenced by a pair of chapped lips covering his own. The hands on Tig's chest move to cradle his face and are more gentle than the bruising kiss, only emphasized by the scratch of shortly trimmed facial hair.

Muscles Tig didn't realize were tense relax for the first time in nine days. He matches the kiss in kind, exhaling sharply through his nose. His short, discolored fingernails dig into the other man's biceps unwilling to let go.

"Hello lovely." An accent starkly different from Tig's own fills his ears. Another kiss is planted chastely. Then Tig is left alone in the entryway.

The kitchen light flicks on a room over. Tig catches a glimpse of Chibs in a wifebeater and checkered pants. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"Ambush. Heard you pull up."

"Did I wake you?" Tig shucks off his vest. His first step to shedding his layers of belongings. He releases his wallet by its chain placing it on the entry table. His gun and knife in its holster follow. He loosens the leather wrist cuffs and rings from his fingers creating a pile he feels he can leave unattended. He kneels to remove his shoes. He sets them beside the door.

"I was awake," Chibs replies. He grabs two plastic water bottles from the fridge. His bare feet pad softly across hardwood to Tig's side. "You need to hydrate." He hears a scoff yet receives no protest. He waits for Tig to remove the spiral shell necklace from his chest and hands him a bottle. Then he steps over the threshold dividing the alcove from the rest of the house and comes to a rest on the worn leather sofa.

"Sorry it's late."

"That's why ye have a key. Been a while." Chibs is hard pressed to recall the last time Tig stayed away for so many nights in a row. "Beginning to think it was something I did. Only come to think of it…" Tig falls gracelessly next to Chibs clutching the plastic in two hands. Their knees naturally gravitate together in search of contact. "…ye haven' been here since-"

"-she patched."

"-Schuyler patched. The night ye went to the gun factory. Tha' was because o' her?"

"Needed the distraction. Her showing up didn't make sense. Still doesn't," Tig says. He chose tonight – of all nights, having helped Schuyler bury a body in the woods – to bring up the elephant in the room. But his solo ride wasn't long enough for him to decide how he was going to rip off the Band-Aid.

"She's interesting, isn't she?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tonight," Chibs begins for them both. He neglects to share the reason he was awake is because he has been recounting the time he spent with Schuyler tonight. He's picturing, not for the first time, how she stood in front of the rapist with such certainty in her actions. Such purpose in the violence she inflicted on the bastard who certainly had it coming. Not once, but twice. "What she did. So sure, of herself. More admirable than if even you had done it."

"That's high praise coming from you."

"Would you rather I said she was pretty?"

"You're telling me that's how you see her?"

"That's what you want to talk about. Isn't it Tiggy?" Chibs places his hand over Tig's knee. "She's fierce. She's impressed the hell out of you, and it pisses you off."

Tig stares at the hand. "'Didn't hesitate, just grabbed a shovel. She never hesitates."

"You've never been one for modesty."

"She's all I've been thinking about!" He discards the bottle in favor of contorting his body to face Chibs with his legs crossed. "Do you remember when we first started out? Why I wanted to keep this open?"

"There were a few reasons." Chibs rests his arm along the back of the couch to keep his body posture open, inviting.

"Remember when I asked you about what it would be like to bring in someone else?"

Chibs' jaw tightens, recalling the conversation that occurred more recently than the first. It was a much more difficult conversation to have. When the two started their proceedings, they set few rules between them understanding too many would only serve to drive them apart. While their ongoing relationship has always been open, the most important rule they established to maintain the peace is that they do not participate in group sex while the other is involved. On the few occasions they brought others into their bed they were made equally jealous. Not to mention such a daring trial poses a great risk to their public image. And, quite possibly, their very lives.

Many factors led to the ultimate creation of the two's less than traditional relationship. Nearly every variant stemmed from an ingrained concern for protected – both one another's and theirs themselves. The biggest driving force, which has also been the biggest strain on their relationship, was that which kept their status a secret. This can be difficult to do while living in such a small town. Yet, it is the small town with its small worldview that required them to consider their safety in the first place. Many of their solutions for maintaining their safety, like the act of keeping their relationship open, stray from the Catholic's previously taught notions of how to conduct an intimate relationship.

Of course, considering he was taught the very act of him sleeping with a man is a sin, Chibs gave up following the rules of religious decency long ago.

What Tig is proposing however, is much more personal. And poses even greater risks.

"She's not some Crow Eater or pair of legs at a truck stop," Tig continues. Chibs can see the amount of forethought Tig has put into his pitch. "She's strong. She's smarter than most. I don't know if I want to break her nose or rip her clothes off every time she challenges me."

"I like that she gets a rise out of you."

Tig raises his hand to trace the ink on Chibs inner wrist. His next words are meant to be reassuring, but in truth he doesn't fully believe them himself when he speaks them. "It's not compared to what you do to me."

"Do you like her?"

Tig nods. His hand clamps around Chibs' wrist.

"Do you want to try hooking up with someone ye've only jus' met?"

"I know how it sounds, alright. It's hard to explain." Even when teetering on the defensive Tig maintains a physical connection. "I'm into her. Just don't know if she's into me. I know she's got a thing for you…"

"Think so?"

"I've seen the way she looks at you." Tig doesn't sound angry or bitter. And the look he gives Chibs suggests he is a little more than intrigued by the concept. "I know you've been looking at her. It's the same way you look at me when you think no one else is."

Chibs smiles in a way that is the closest his physicality will allow him to appear bashful. "That look is going to have us both blacking out the ink. I'm intrigued by her, but that's not going to be enough for me. That's not what I agreed to."

"'s not what I want."

Chibs' eyes are incredibly soft while gazing at the man across from him. "And I want to give you what you want. Tiggy, I need to know if you think she can satisfy you in ways that I cannae?"

"It's not like that Chibby." Tig starts to pull away.

"I know. I do. I'm asking you if she can satisfy you, emotionally, in ways that I cannot? Do you want a relationship with her?"

Tig drops his head, defeated. The meat of the issue revealed. "It's been so long since I've been with a woman that way…and I think I need to be. Not at the cost of you, but…I want to try. I need to know."

"Aye lovely. I can see tha'. But we should wait and see what she wants," Chibs states with finality. He stands from the couch to hold out his hand for Tig to take. When Tig complies the two stand a short distance apart breathing each other's air. They are nearly the same height, but it's Chibs' extra few years of age, and with them additional life experiences, which allow Tig to feel safe in his presence.

Chibs speaks evenly wanting to do everything he can to put Tig at ease. "The last thing I want is for you to get hurt by some lassie who doesn't deserve ye. Don't charge head first into this. We'll figure this out, the way we always have."

Chibs leans in close for a kiss. It's neither demanding nor forceful. He is not stealing a kiss, but rather giving one. It is meant to remind Tig he is present.

Tig rattles out a breath with so much force his exhaustion finally consumes him. He isn't even sure he can walk to the bedroom on his own. He steps into Chibs' arms to press their foreheads together and accepts every word Chibs offered as the absolute truth.

"Let's go to bed. We can discuss it tomorrow."


	7. Patch Over

Author's Notes (More at the end):

Trigger Warning: Sexually explicit language, prostitutions, and suggestions of sexual acts. (I wonder what the next warning I mention could possibly be...)

Welcome to the longest instalment of TROD to date! And let's celebrate the fact that I successful uploaded two months in a row (that hasn't happened since chapter 3!). Did anyone order a large helping of inter-character relationship development with a side helping of more dialogue than you can shake a stick at? Then this chapter is tailor made especially for you! There's hardly a character who doesn't get their moment in the spotlight this chapter and we learn a bit more of Schuyler's personal character as well.

Without further ado, Enjoy your (for once!) regularly scheduled update...

"You're telling me you've never been to a live show?" Schuyler is walking in step between Half-Sack and Juice. She collected them from the garage and together they are heading to the chapel. "Not even once?"

Half-Sack pouts. "How the hell would I've done that? I only started making money as a mechanic."

"Surely that constitutes child cruelty. I've been going to events since I was six years old." She turns her question to Juice. A plan beginning to brew. "What about you Juicy?"

"Do open mic nights count? I used to sneak into those when I was back east."

"If there's an audience it counts," Schuyler allows. She opens the clubhouse door with enough force to allow each of them to pass through. "But I'm talking about a music festival. Live music, spending twelve hours in the heat, drowning yourself in hot beer. I can't believe you've managed to miss out on such a monumental experience."

They are the last members to arrive. Expecting to part ways, Schuyler stops at the chapels' double doors and relays her message before taking her seat. "Hey, lucky for you two, I might have a way to remedy your severe miscalculation in life. Let me get back to you in a couple of days."

The patches take their collective seats. When Half-Sack tries to close himself off from the sacred room, as he has now done countless times, his President waves him inside. The prospect looks about the room confusedly. Slowly, he lowers himself into a seat beside his sponsor. He fears one wrong move could lead the adults at the table to change their minds and banish him again.

The senior member claps his hand on Half-Sack's shoulder. "This doesn't mean shit Prospect. Yer here so we donnae have to repeat it."

Half-Sack sets a serious expression. When he sees Schuyler wink at him from across the redwood, however, his smile returns with a feeling of accomplishment.

Next to Schuyler, Juice kicks off the meeting. "So. What's the emergency?"

Its Tig who answers with a sneer. "Got a call from Unser this morning. Hale's got a new ATF boyfriend. Chief doesn't know what the Fed is here to investigate but, for my money, it's us."

Clay rebukes him. "We've taken every precaution to keep off of the state's radar. No busts, no raids, not even a speeding ticket has been charged to the tow truck in the last five years. We don't know for sure this guy is here for us."

"Hacks can hold a grudge as well as any of us can," Schuyler explains. "Edward was of the mindset that it's always better to see when the PD is active. If they're inactive, that means they're busy coming up with a scheme of their own. Could be for a job pulled last month; could also be retaliation for a gig that's aged twenty years."

Jackson agrees. "Sky's right. Hale flagged Bluebird as our gun warehouse. He's pissed off we had Unser crush the case against us, so he called in the Feds. Think it's gotta be about us."

"That'd be my guess," Bobby replies. "And if we've got eyes on us, any legitimate place we try to stash the Irish's shipment is going to be a straight line back to us."

"Can't Rosen hook us up with a temp location?" Juice questions.

Clay kills the suggestion outright. "He's busy burying the Bluebird, man. Setting up a dummy corp; it's going to take him a few weeks."

"You know, we got that call from Jury last week." Jackson reminds Clay. Then he addresses the table to explain his reasoning. "Mayans are pressing the Devil's Tribe to pay a vig. To keep running book and pussy in their backyard. Tribe is earning outlaw sized money these days and the Mayans are picking up on it. Look, maybe I do head to Indian Hills. Lend Jury some advice, maybe he offers our guns a safehouse."

"Can't let you go on that ride Jackieboy," Chibs interjects. "Too risky to go into Mayan territory with them looking to retaliate against us. You'd have to blow right past them."

Bobby pulls a cigarette from his kutte. "Mayans know the Tribe is a brother club. Part of asking for that vig is to draw us out. They knew Jury would call and they'll be patrolling the border."

"That's why we don't travel in numbers." Jackson's next declaration is a surprise. "Me and Schuyler go in. Stay off the radar. Take the guns up there the same way."

"The clinic won't call me in for a few days," Schuyler agrees. "They can't pay for all three of us, so I can make the trip with you, no problem."

Clay glances between the officers. "Are you gonna be able to get Jury on board with this?"

"Shit, my dad saved his ass in 'Nam. He owes the Tellers a chit."

"Fine. But I want Bobby to go with you. You need the adult supervision."

"I resent that sentiment," Schuyler mutters.

"I don't give a shit," Clay points at her accusingly. "The last time I let the two of you make the call, some poor bastard ended up with an axe in his melon."

Schuyler exhales through her nose in amusement. "Focus on the positive aspect of that story." She holds up two fingers then rotates her hand until she flips the bird at Clay. "You ended up with two distractions for the price of one."

"Low profile," Clay insists through a repressed smirk. "I don't want a single spic finding out we crossed into N.V." His next orders are for the other members at the table. "They pull this off, I want you and Half-Sack driving the barrels."

"Done," Tig agrees. "We're going to need something big though."

"I'll call Unser. Secure you a truck. Make it look like someone clipped it. Cancer boy wants deniability." Clay raises his gavel in preparation. "Anyone else?"

"Yeah, McKeavy reached out," Chibs informs. "He's gonnae be on the coast longer than he expected. Says we've got five weeks to settle our debt. Keep flush with the IRA."

"Let's focus on transport." Clay dismisses the meeting. "Get the product to Indian Hills. Then we'll worry about a buyer."

Outside Jackson becomes sidetracked from mounting his bike by the arrival of his mother. Gemma rolls onto the lot planning to dwindle her hours away sorting through paper work. Jackson indicates for Schuyler to join him and the duo approaches Gemma together. "Hey mom. Where you been?"

"Oh, same place I've been for the last three weeks. Raising your boy while you've been busy raising hell." Gemma steps out of the car with a hand on her hip. Her expensive purse caught between these two points. Silver hoops slip up and down her arm showing the motion she uses to slam the car door shut.

"Gonna need you to keep checking in on him." Jackson squints through the sun into his mother's regularly suspicious face. "Let me know how he's doing. I'm heading out for a couple of days."

"Where are you going?"

"Visit uncle Jury."

"Nevada?" Gemma asks, concerned. "By yourself?"

"With Bobby. And Sky."

The sole purpose of Gemma removing her sunglasses is to keep her view from being obstructed while examining Schuyler with a critical eye. "Does Clay know about this escapade?"

Jackson laughs. Gemma's gaze doesn't waver. "Relax mom. It's gonna be fine. Won't be gone long."

Schuyler smiles brightly projecting confidence. "I haven't lost anyone yet. No one's going to be hurt on my watch."

"You don't have to convince me." Gemma purses her lips. "We both know what happens in the untimely event you lose someone."

Since getting to know the folks in Charming, Schuyler has done a fair job of balancing when and how to apply pressure in order to be accepted into her new surroundings. For this reason, and for the first time since she arrived, she casts down her eyes in a subtle show of submission. "We know all too well."

Jackson kisses his mother on the cheek, and she turns her back on him to attend to her day.

Schuyler watches the lioness lift her needle-like heels in Schuyler's direction. Her head is held high against the morning sunlight in contempt. Her hips swing naturally, neither for the entertainment of eyes nor with the intent to reserve decency. "She was wishing me good luck, right?"

Jackson pats Schuyler on the back. "She has total faith in you."

Traveling approximately eighty-two mph around any one curve on the interstate Jackson is leading Schuyler and Bobby towards Indian Hills. Their desired destination is a bar managed by the local motorcycle club named the Devil's Tribe and it is the first pitstop across the border into Nevada.

The trio is cruising seamlessly enjoying the sunny ride. That is, until they turn a corner and come face to face with the rival crew they were specifically tasked to avoid. At a distance, they can see they are outnumbered three to one and, because they are traveling on a two-way road that overlooks a steep cliff, there is no chance of exiting or even swerving out of the approaching Mayans' path.

Jackson gradually decreases his speed in preparation for the two companies to pass each other. The trio falls into a tight pyramid formation. The bikes are precariously close; near enough to one another that their riders could poke each other's tires. If anyone were to accelerate too suddenly they would all be at risk of wiping out.

Bobby shouts over the rumble of the machines. "So much for low profile."

With a quarter of a mile between them, the Mayans spot the trespassers who neglected to request a travel pass through their territory. A biker breaks formation to drive opposite the Sons in the same lane. A Hispanic man poises his pistol between his ape hanger handle bars. Then he swerves sharply into the proper lane at the last possible second without firing.

Jackson doesn't flinch at the intimidation tactic. He maintains his speed as the rival motorcyclists fly by and is the first to notice when three of the Mayans leave their guild to chase down his own group. He signals to Bobby. He drops his right arm and displays a hand sign against his right thigh. Bobby parrots the sign to Schuyler on his left leg, and she knows the play.

When the group hits a straight in the road they part to either side of the lane and break almost instantly. The Mayans, who had been traveling at high speeds to catch up to them, race through the lane the SOA created and continue up the road. The trio pull their weapons and fire rounds, purposefully missing the bikes and their riders. They are warning shots. The Mayans disappear behind a small rise in the road.

Jackson waves the group onwards. A few miles from the border they come upon a gas station. Still ten minutes from the protection of their brother charter's compound, the trio is forced to cease and reconnect with their home base.  
They park their bikes near the front door. Jackson dismounts and asks Bobby to throw him a prepay. With it is in his hand, Jackson goes behind the shabby building to stand out of sight.

Schuyler considers going inside to buy a pack of cigarettes. Bobby catches her attention instead. "Let's take a walk."

They start on a path opposite of Jackson's. They plan to trace the perimeter of the parking lot and catch up with him around the other side. "How's it going Bobby?"

"Just checking in. You seem to be settling in well."

Schuyler rolls her shoulders periodically to stretch her muscles from the drive. "Place I'm hunkered down in isn't much, but there's a bed. Routine work at the clinic is a good base line to return to between these random misadventures."

"Weeks' worth of radio silence broken by an impromptu road trip. That sounds about right." Bobby produces a joint from an inner pocket and lights it. "I haven't gotten a chance to mention it, but you've been a big help around here. Clay may not show it much, but you've impressed him, ever since that night at the carnival."

Schuyler smirks. "Thanks man. I'm glad I can help out."

"Had some of the guys shaking in their boots. Damn near scared the piss out of Sack." Bobby turns on a dime. "You've been helping Jax out a lot, too, haven't you?"

"I don't follow."

Bobby offers Schuyler a hit and she declines expecting an explanation to follow. "Ever since his boy was born his head has been up in the clouds. Only time he seems to come down from 'em is to talk to you."

"Are you serious right now?"

"He's been second guessing Clay at every turn. The club's picking up on it."

"I think you've been imagining these things."

Bobby stops walking. "Are you saying Jax hasn't been confiding in you? Because if that's the truth, that means he hasn't been talking to any one, and we both know that shit's even more dangerous."

Schuyler weighs her words. When she speaks, her goal is to soothe the concerns of her brother. "Confide is a strong word Bobby. He's just been talking, and my ears have been in the room."

Bobby is visibly unconvinced. "I have a feeling it looks that way because I'm a new face. I'm willing to bet I'm the first new one he's seen in a while. Maybe even a couple of years?" Bobby nods silently to encourage her. "He doesn't care what I think. He doesn't have to save face with me. So, what if that means he bounces some ideas off me. He's doing it because he doesn't have to worry about scaring his brothers."

"Whatever you wanna call it, he's looking to you." Bobby sets off again. "I meant it when I said you haven't given me a reason not to trust you. Since you landed, I've grown to respect you. I want to know I can still trust you to look out for him. You should be helping him get right with this. Don't be filling his head when he ain't got no more room. And don't let him drag you down in the process of him working through his shit. Just, be there for him."

"I'm here for everyone, Bobby. I'm here."

The pair completes their circuit in silence. They discover Jackson pacing while squeezing the burner in a clenched fist. "Any word from Clay?"

Jackson's face is grim. "Clay's heading up here. Bringing most of the guys with him. Says this is mandatory. He wants to Patch-Over the Tribe."

Bobby asks a logistical question. "He having the Vegas boys head down, too?"

"Yep," Jackson shakes his head in frustration. "Says we need a bigger presence."

"Hold up," Schuyler interjects. "Did the Tribe know this was a possibility?"

"Nope. We've got to get there first. Least I can do for Jury is have him hear it from me."

They walk back to their machines and see a truck has since parked beside them. A man Jackson's age with auburn hair is juggling an infant in his arms. At the same time, he is trying his best to usher his young son inside the gas station. The dilemma is the toddler is more drawn to the shiny motorcycles. The cheerful boy examines them before stretching high to place his hand on the headlight of Schuyler's Harley.

"Hey buddy!" The man's voice is frantic. "We do not touch things that do not belong to us."

"It's alright," Schuyler insists. The man is relieved when it is a woman who claims the bike. Then he realizes she is being pursued by two men clad and his eyes widen in horror. "Is it alright with you if I set him on it for a minute?"  
The stranger is astonished by Schuyler's offer and finds himself nodding to avoid offending any of the people who approach. Jackson and Bobby saddle up beside their bikes to watch on fondly.

Schuyler squats down to introduce herself. "Hey there. What's your name?"

"Otis."

"We call him Ottey."

"Otis! Do you like my motorcycle?"

The boy in a blue t-shirt and Velcro sneakers nods enthusiastically. She lifts the toddler in an exaggerated fashion to sit him on the seat. Standing behind him keeping a hand on his back Schuyler encourages him to reach towards the bars. He is momentarily hypnotized by her keys until he remembers he's on a bike larger than any toy he's ever been presented with.

"I'm really sorry about this," the man rocks the bundle in his arms. "I'm sure you nice folks have places to be getting to." He eyes Schuyler's vest with vigilance.

"Since when does one need a reason to be on the road," Bobby engages the stressed father. The toddler begins to make noises to imitate the machine.

"You know he only chose yours because it was the one closest to him," Jackson says. He picks his half-helmet up off his own handlebars and places it on the boy's cinnamon-dusted head of hair.

Schuyler snarks back. "Don't listen to him. He's just jealous because mine's the better model."

"Really," asks the father politely. "How come?"

"Mine's faster."

"Very cool." Though the father's tone is rueful he's happy to see his son enjoying the bike. "Knowing my luck, he's going to want one of his own after this."

"Then I've done my civic duty for the day."

The boy squeals loudly. "Vroom, vroom."

A compact square building made of cinderblock resides a few miles over the border. The outside is mostly bare and there are no major signs or features of any kind to distinguish it from any other lone building on the side of the barren desert road. Except for, a massive Devil's Tribe banner plastered on the presumed front and more than a dozen motorcycles that are parked in the fenced in lot. Most of the machines are customized to bare the MC's signature logo. And a metal barn is sitting on the same land adjacent to the main building that looms high over bulk of the property. The establishment is purposefully bland. Designed to be forgettable yet intimidating. Captivating to the intended clientele and a deterrent for those meant to keep an appropriate distance.

"Hey," Bobby engages with Schuyler as they traipse up to the thin, wide steps leading to the door. "That was really cool what you did for that kid. You were good with him. Better than most would have been."

Schuyler wonders who Bobby is referring to: the toddler or the father. "I'm only good with the ones I can give back."

The double door wooden entrance, painted a teal green that is peeling off, is pushed open and the Devil Tribe's first and second in command exit in tandem.

"Jackson Teller!" A lean man with white hair shouts.

"Uncle Jury!" Jackson shouts back. Their hug is as rough as their exteriors.

"It's been sometime."

"You remember Bobby."

"MC royalty." The President embraces Bobby heartily. "How can I forget?"

Bobby accepts Jury's greeting and extends his well wishes to his second. "Needles, how are you?"

"I want you guys to meet Schuyler."

Jury steps up to Schuyler with a scowl that is put on. Needles abstains from having an opinion until his President formulates one of his own. "Her dad was close to my old man and headed a chapter down in Texas."

"Any friend of the Tellers is a friend of mine." He offers Schuyler his hand and she shakes it back in recognition of his authority. "You need anything, just let me know. I'll be proud to host you. Why don't y'all come in? Get you set up with some drinks. And we'll have a sit down."

They follow Jury into his place of business. Like Teller-Morrow, Jury has resided as a sole owner for many years. But there are more differences than similarities between the two clubs' sources of income.

For starters, Jury owns a brothel. Instead of dining tables there are clusters of furniture, couches, loveseats, and recliners, littering the primary room. There are less pool tables and more freestanding stools to allow for easy movement about the floor. Several women are maintaining the bar in one corner and a neon sign hangs over a darkened doorway on the back wall. Beneath the sign is a narrow corridor that leads to the back of the house where there are no sources of light and numerous private apartment rooms are hidden. The front of the house isn't lit much brighter, and speakers are hanging from the ceiling producing deep, inciting melodies.

"Smells like a Fraternity house in here," Schuyler comments. The air is rancid with booze, cheap cologne, and high testosterone that can only be diminished through making a series of questionable decisions.

The other major difference between this bar and the Sons of Anarchy's clubhouse is that the Tribe's meeting table takes up a corner of the bar room. Since the Indian Hill's MC isn't classified as an outlaw organization there is no need for their church table to be concealed behind heavy doors and noise canceling foam.

Along with the women working the bar, wearing cheap jewelry that barely catches a reflection and too much makeup, there are several more strutting across the main floor. These women are the escorts and they are tending to the crew's every desire. One of these women, a petite brunette in a short denim skirt catches sight of the newcomers and, never one to slack on her duties, decides to introduce herself.

"Welcome to Indian Hills."

"Cherry," Jury catches the woman by the elbow. "These are our guests. Make them comfortable." Jury whispers privately into the young woman's ear. She receives his message and locks her eyes onto Schuyler.

Needles guides Bobby away so the higher-ranking officers can discuss their business. "Any of the girl's you'd like to be better acquainted with, friend?"

"Yeah, a few." Bobby follows Needles to one of the pool tables in pursuit of a bikini-clad temptress.

"Cherry's my best girl." Schuyler redirects her attention to the matter at hand. Which happens to be Jury attempting to pass off one of his workers onto her. "She'll make sure you're treated right while you're here. Jax, let's get that drink."

Schuyler watches her Vice President swagger off to the bar with the allied club's official. The worker approaches Schuyler seemingly on her own.

"I bet I can guess how you earned such a sweet nickname."

Cherry laughs in a way that can almost be convincing. "Why sit around guessing when you can have firsthand experience? It's on the house." She speaks with a cute southern accent and her tone is naturally flirty.

Schuyler smiles sadly upon realizing the order Jury gave the woman. "Thanks, little darlin', but I'll have to pass."

Cherry pouts playfully. "If I'm not up to your liking, I know a couple more gals who would be just as eager to please."

"I don't get off on feeling like I'm someone else's chore. Besides, I know I'm not the first pick of the bunch for you ladies."

"Well how else is a girl supposed to gain experience if someone doesn't go and take a chance on her?"

Schuyler kicks out her left leg; she leans her weight onto the mirrored hip setting her arm comfortably against it. "Now I can tell the difference between a lack of experience and a lack of interest. And we both know it's the men around here that need tending to."

Cherry's learned smile morphs into a curious expression. "That we do. If you're not goin' to take me up on my most generous offer, then may I speak plainly, Ma'am?"

"If you promise to never ask my permission for anything again. Shoot."

"You're different from the usual hang-arounds. And you're sure as shit not like those men you walked in here with." Cherry's teased curls shift on her shoulders. She saunters around Schuyler's form admiring the slightly older woman's kutte close up. She is creating a profile. "I didn't expect to see something as wild as a dame in a vest. 'Specially not one coming from little old Charming."

"I'm from Texas. A place even more backwards." Schuyler is no stranger to having eyes on her. "Upside is those boys down South easily confused and even more easily manipulated by a pretty face."

"Shit." Cherry bursts with laughter only to stamp it out. "How many dicks did you have to take then to earn that handsome leather?"

"None. I'm sure that makes it all the harder for you to understand."

"Nah. Just different is all." Cherry stops in front of Schuyler. "We're traveling our own paths. You got an Oldman waiting for you at home?"

"Something else that's different between us. That's not my endgame. Do you not have any bigger dreams than settling down?"

"'Settlin' down'?" Cherry squints at Schuyler sideways. Her teeth a not-so-straight line of white. "How'd you do that? Make it sound so romantic while still making it sound like some sort a curse."

"Would you rather I call it like it is? Settling."

"I've been here for going on three years. I showed up with next to nothing and the club took me in. We take care of each other, I mean, it's a family." Cherry nods towards Jackson and Jury sitting at the bar with beers in hand.  
"Surely you can understand that."

Schuyler observes the crowd. For every couple carelessly grinding on a couch, there are civilians playing pool, brothers sharing blunts, and women idly chatting about everything and nothing at all. She recalls the going away party SAMTEX threw her merely two months ago. "As dysfunctional as it may be."

"You heard Jury. I'm the best girl he's got. And someday, real soon, one of these guys is gonna realize what a fine Oldlady I'll make. I'll have paid my dues. Then I'll belong to that guy and that guy only. How's that settling for something lesser?"

Schuyler hums politely. "There's only two reasons a girl ends up in your position. She's so clueless she doesn't know what she's getting herself into or she's running from something she can never hope to out run. Which one are you, little darlin'?"

"Is both an option?"

"Wouldn't surprise me any."

"I doubt there's much that surprises you. Guess it's fair to say I've drank the Kool-Aid." Cherry tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fiddling with it momentarily. Yet, she never shies away from meeting Schuyler straight on. "Anyway, what does it matter? I'm here now."

"The thing that landed you here may be the one thing that can pull you out. Whatever it was that brought you here is what made you strong enough for this line of work. Best to keep that in mind. No matter how painful it may be."

"Wow. So that's how you got where you're at. You're a heck of a lot smarter than any of them I've met, and I've met plenty."

At the bar, Jackson walks away from Jury looking even more dejected than when he arrived. "You're smarter than most of the woman I've seen working in places like these. I know it's easy to forget. Don't. No matter what they ask of you. It's how you'll survive." As he nears her, Jackson motions for Schuyler to follow him out the building. She winks to Cherry when saying her goodbye. "And eventually settle. Catch me later on tonight. We'll have a beer. If you don't have your hands full."

"You in there making friends," Jackson asks her over his shoulder.

Schuyler sticks her hand out in request for a drink when she catches up to him. He naturally passes her his beer. "Something like that. She's a good girl. I don't usually have that to say about the workers." She takes a swig and passes the bottle back. They come to rest on a picnic table set up just outside the entrance. "Did you and Jury get into it?"

"Didn't see it coming. Offered us a safehouse, no questions asked. Somehow that makes me feel even worse about slamming the patch on him, no warning." Jackson sets the bottle between them on the picnic table and pulls out a package of cigarettes to set beside it.

"Clay says it's the best move for both clubs, right? We get somewhere to store and assemble. The Tribe gets SOA status and protection from the Mayans."

The two take turns pulling smokes from the box.

"I'm not sure the old man is gonna be able to hang a reaper on his back. Indian Hills may have started outlaw but shit, now, they're bookkeepers and bouncers. Most of them ain't SOA material. Clay is making a mistake with this move."

"Maybe. How many do you think will stick around after the vote?"

"Tribe attracts a crowd, but I expect half will split when they hear the news. It won't be enough to defend against the Mayans when they come to collect. I want to be here for Jury when that happens."

"You know Clay is goin' to have an opinion on that."

"Yeah. I'll try it your way first. See if he hears me out."

A large group of motorcycles rolls into the compound with the setting sun. Not only those commuting from Charming arrive, but several men from the Washington charter are riding with them. In addition, they caught up with a dozen more men on the road who were on their way from Las Vegas. The unified ensemble creates a ferocious thunder storm against the smoldering asphalt. Patch-Overs are known to be high energy, extended parties and attract impressive crowds. Three charters will be representing the overarching network to indoctrinate the new branch into the folds.

Clay carefully removes his helmet and rubs his hands which are aching from the journey. "Jury ready to hear from us?"

Jackson nods stoically while grinding his cigarette into the picnic table. "Offered us a safehouse on route 95. His guys though, they don't know what's coming."

"The ones cut out for it will stick around." Clay looks to Chibs and Juice who walk up beside him. They nod remotely. The majority of the club seems to be in agreement with the decision. "Others will fall off. Best way to thin out a herd."

Jackson is smart enough to reframe from starting an argument before the vote is cast. He changes the subject promptly. "Where are we at with transport?"

"I had Happy stay behind with Tig. They'll be here come first light."

Schuyler looks around Clay curiously. "I thought the prospect was hauling barrels?"

Clay contorts his face confusedly. "What prospect?" He pivots, stomping up the flat steps to begin church proceedings. Half-Sack is left where Clay was standing.

"Ouch," Schuyler teases. "How'd you manage to screw up this time jackass?"

"Don't ask," Half-Sack half pleads.

"I'll tell ya." Juice catches the youngest by the shoulders spinning an embarrassing yarn at the prospect's expense. The members shadow their President into the brothel for the vote to be held.

An hour later, the vote is in. As Jackson predicted, nearly half of Jury's original crew stamp out of the compound. They toss their worn Devil's Tribe kuttes to the ground and grind their dirty boots into them in the wake of their ranting and raving. Those who remain, including the MC's first and second positions, consented to swear off their decades long ties and don a new name. With the title, they are inheriting more than a generations' worth of history, reputation, and hardship.

Jackson assists Jury in trading his original Presidents' vest with an official Sons of Anarchy kutte complete with badges.

"Indian Hills, Nevada charter. Sons of Anarchy." Clay christens the property by ripping a Devil's Tribe banner off a wall that had been hanging over the meeting table. In its place he uses a can of spray paint to write SOA in blue on the charcoal wall. "From this moment on, we are brothers. Congratulations."

Jackson pulls Jury into a manly embrace. He hits him hard on the back several times before letting go and allowing Clay the space to do the same. When the two Presidents embrace in mutual respect the clubhouse explodes in a furious uproar.

"Patch-Over Party!"

The compound reopens its doors. The crowd thins out spreading from the table to the bar to outside across the lot all the way to the barn. The crowd is replenished from outsiders being allowed to reenter. Word got out to neighboring towns about the 'can't miss' Patch-Over bash. The itinerary for the evening consists of drinking, smoking, playing billiards, and, for those who know how to play their cards right, disappearing down the blacked-out corridor under the neon sign.

"Schuyler." Schuyler turns to find Cherry stalking towards her amidst the bustling crowd. "I'm nothing but hospitable to you and you can't return the favor."

"Yeah, sorry." Schuyler disguises an excuse in the form of a compliment. "Didn't need the girls causing a fuss before the decision was finalized. Besides, I figured you're the best suited to adapt to the changing times."

"Guess it won't be all that different, will it?" With a simple question, Cherry shows her age, looking to the older woman for advice.

"Are we still speaking plainly?" Cherry nods, already wise to the truth. "It's going to get a lot harder. You'll get more traffic around here and need to ready for it. Look after these girls as best you can when trouble comes knocking."

"I did ask to hear it." Cherry rolls her eyes. She swipes the same strand of hair behind her ear. "Wait to bring down the mood. We're supposed to be celebrating! Let's talk about something else. Tell me about him."  
Cherry nonchalantly points her knee into the crowd. Half-Sack is leaning with his shoulder on the wall and not so covertly sneaking glances at Cherry. "Who, the prospect?"

"He's cute. What's his name?"

"Why," Schuyler asks. She has a teasing smirk on her face. "Is Half-Sack being sweet on you?"

"More like running scared every time I get close. But he's been shadowing me since he showed up." Cherry turns to throw the prospect a flirty smile. Schuyler practically sees his heart stop. "Thinkin' about making the first move for him."

"See. That's what interest looks like." Schuyler steps close to shoulder Cherry in Half-Sack's direction. "Careful how you spin yourself though. In my experience, it's the ones who start out as Crow Eaters that end up divorcing the fastest."

"The fastest?" Cherry asks, perplexed.

"Very few marriages survive. Regardless of how they begin."

"Gee, thanks so much for the encouragement."

"My comment is meant to deter little darlin'. But if you really have your heart set on the prospect, I suggest you make that move. Because no matter how much he thinks he likes the look of you his dick is going to enter the first hole offered to him."

"Now that's encouraging!"

Around two in the morning the atmosphere changes. The bar divides into two types of people. The quitters, who pass out on the nearest piece of furniture from exhaustion or alcohol or both. The advantage of being a snoozer is that they'll likely be the first awake and the first to leave at dawn. Then there are the night owls who train their entire adult lives for the opportunity to attend the likes of a Patch-Over. These people are on their second round of partners and their fifth or sixth round of drink. The theory is they may party for a longer amount of time, but they'll also have the worst hangovers when they emerge from their comas come noon the next day.

Jackson's crew are among the second category. He emerges from an apartment room empty handed, having undoubtedly left a woman behind to sleep in the bed they had shared. He settles on a loveseat a short distance from Schuyler in the center of their group. He props his heavy feet on the cheap coffee table. He hooks his elbow over the lip of the small couch hitting the wall behind him. He reinvigorates the conversation being held by those who are currently unoccupied. He teases the tale of his latest triumph.

"I'm racking up my numbers tonight." His brothers are enthralled. Bobby has his feet up in a recliner to Schuyler's left with a cigar and a drink occupying his hands. Chibs had returned from his own conquest not long before Jackson had and sat diagonally from Schuyler on his own couch. He had been scanning the front of the house for a new target only for his attention to be redrawn into the circle by the discussion.

Schuyler is quick to shut Jackson down. "It's not a 'victory' if she's paid to engage with you, brother."

"Money wasn't coming from my pocket." Laughter is heard from all sides. "Besides, I haven't seen you score tonight, sister. And there's no shortage of targets."

"I prefer the challenge of the sport. I'm not settling for prepared meat," she remarks scornfully.

It's unsurprising that men like Jackson have already been scoring. But women, even the escorts, usually have to get a few drinks in them before they willingly seek out a man like Bobby without prompting. As the compound collectively catches its second wind, Bobby spots two wildly attractive women whispering between themselves with exuberance and looking, he believes, in his direction. "Finally."

He straightens his vest on his shoulders and moves to leave his chair before Schuyler shatters his dreams. "You better check your privilege Bobby." Schuyler meets these women's eyes. They are Jury's girls. Newly recasted Crow Eaters. They are each in colorfully ripped and creatively exposing dresses to accentuate their ample curves. She gives them a confident wink. "Wouldn't want to go losing the best seat in the house, would you?"

They turn towards each other and giggle some more. By the time they decide how best to approach the rarest of breeds they see before them, Jury calls the escorts to action from across the bar room. One of the girls waves a sly farewell and Schuyler nods to them both in understanding. They slink off the join their next client who was chosen for them.

Schuyler's exchange with the women peaks Juice's interest. He is sitting a fair deal away from her on Jackson's right atop a barstool. But that doesn't keep him from shouting over the speakers. Damn anyone outside their circle who hears it. "Are we playing on the same team?" He wears a crooked hanging smile at the thought.

Schuyler doesn't mind. "I play for both teams. But not much since college." Despite her better judgement telling her she shouldn't encourage them; she finds herself making a less than sophisticated joke for their amusement. "Chicks are crazy."

She earns a hearty laugh from the circle. Juice nearly topples off his perch. Bobby raises his drink to her words. "Cheers to that!"

Sitting in the center of the primary room Schuyler is in the best position to people watch. She has observed roughly 300 bodies pass her by over the course of the celebratory night. A fair percentage has indeed consisted of club members from the various charters who will take any excuse offered to them to throw a rambunctious party. It is second nature for her to filter them from her vision to where she can practically see through them. A smaller percentage has included the escorts or the less professionally regarded hang-arounds who routinely disappear and reappear from the private entertainment suites never with the same partner twice. She, too, ignores these frequenters.

Over half of the guests have been locals or travelers who are merely passing through. Each of these strangers has entered looking to consume enough liquor to give an elephant alcohol poisoning or perhaps have a dance or two. All of whom are hoping for the chance to hook up with a tough but mysteriously attractive biker or one of their equal parts attractive and overenthusiastic fans. These are the guests Schuyler silently observes. She draws no unwanted attention to herself and from a safe distance does not appear to be looking at the guests with the same intentions as her brothers. Her eyes, however, are like that of a hawk. Quietly hungering for its next meal.

A man well into his forties with silver streaks in his hair, who physically appears too well kempt to be walking into a bar in the middle of the night, is one of these random visitors. He has no affiliation and has likely only heard rumors of this establishment from friends of friends and those who are lower than him on the corporate food chain. He wanders in with no set plan in mind for his actions. He takes the time to spin off a wedding band on his left hand careful to deposit it in a pocket of his American cut suit. His eyes scan the layout of the more than casually organized scene until he works up the nerve to find a seat at the bar counter.

But this is not before his eyes find Schuyler's own blue pair, which had already captured him in their gaze, from across the crowded room. Even with five yards between them Schuyler sees his breath get lost somewhere in his chest and the thought that maybe he should introduce himself composes on and quickly dissipates from his clean-shaven face. When he arrives at the bar he orders a bourbon and rotates it slowly between his loosely clasped hands. Occasionally he glances up from a bowl of peanuts to seek out Schuyler.

"Speaking of which…" Schuyler snaps her fingers in an attempt to get the prospects' attention. The boy is sitting on the arm rest of Chibs' couch opposite the older man. He has sat there since Clay disappeared into the back of the house with Cherry. This was not long after Cherry introduced herself to the prospect and the two got acquainted. Clay took the beautiful woman out of Half-Sack's arms in the middle of a slow dance. Since then, Half-Sack has moped around the whole night but continuously sought after another woman to help him forget the one he is not allowed to have.

Now a young woman with a dark complexion and equally dark hair is straddling his hips and Half-Sack has no intention of letting her go. He frees his mouth from her soft skin long enough to dismiss the demeaning gesture. "Piss off!"

"Prospect," Schuyler raises her voice over the music to reprimand his speaking out of term. Half-Sack knows she is serious.

Even as he pushes the worker from his lap, he protests pitifully. He stands up to face her, raising his hands clasped together up with him. "Come on Sky! I was so close with that one."

Schuyler stands to remove her vest. She lets her gaze linger towards the bar as she walks around the coffee table to pass the junior member her most valued possession. A sign of trust as much as it is an assignment to a task. "We can take turns. I'll go first because I have seniority."

"The hell are you handing me this for?" Half-Sack clutches the material in a single hand. He looks not unlike how a husband might look when unwillingly holding his wife's purse.

"The poor boy's already skittish as is and I'm plenty opposing without it. Don't worry, I won't be long."

"Boy?!" Juice follows Schuyler's gaze hoping to see her looking at another woman only to be disappointed by the man he sees is panting over her. "The one gawking at your ass. He's old enough to be my grandfather!"

"Hardly!" Schuyler rounds on her younger sibling, annoyed, in the same motion that she shoves Half-Sack back onto his armrest to ensure he will not wander off. "I'm working out my daddy issues."

Schuyler steps through the seated group. She is walking with a particular swing in her hips that none of her brothers has ever previously noticed or considered before. Schuyler runs her fingers through her short hair once during her approach. She is wearing tight black skinny jeans and an equally slim fitting dark blue shirt with sleeves that reach her wrists. Her ribs connect with the edge of the bar when she comes to a stop in front of the out of place man. Said man is at a loss as to why a twenty something year old would ever bother to look at him twice.

"Are you going to buy me a drink?"

The man starts with a stutter. "Sure, suRE!" His voice rises as he speaks to compete with the bustling of bodies, clinking of glasses, and a guitarist who hits a solo over the loudspeakers. "What are you –," The man clears his throat, "what are you having?"

"Whatever it is you happen to be having sugar." Schuyler wonders if the man has tattoos and definitively deems that he does not.

A drink is offered to Schuyler by a bar keep. It goes ignored.

"This your first time in Indian Hills, stranger?" Schuyler bats her eye methodically.

"Am I making it so obvious? I'm from the city. I'll only be here for one night."

"Me too. Funny how things work out." Schuyler says this as a promise to the man that he will never see her again and that whatever transpires between them will never last beyond sunrise.

He visibly relaxes the longer they speak and even sips lightly on his drink. "Are you, with them?" He glances warily over her shoulder.

Schuyler knows the eyes of her club are attentively on her back. "Why, are they staring? They're harmless. Well, most of them are mostly harmless. Maybe, if you'd rather, we could take this away from prying eyes."

"I think I'd like that," the man responds hesitantly. "I passed a motel a few miles back –."

"Unfortunately, I have to ride back with them. Rules, politics, the sort." Schuyler's voice is authoritative yet calming. "How about, instead, you step down that there hallway and I might just follow you back."

The man partially smiles. "It's not a guarantee you'll be there when I turn around, is it?"

"Let's see what you look like walking away first." Her smile is flirtatious.

The man, who Schuyler hadn't bothered to trade names with, gives one last look over her shoulder. His eyes are wide as he finishes the remainder of his drink. Then he gets up from the stool, turns his back to Schuyler, and walks down the blacked-out corridor, hoping against hope she would follow him.

Schuyler is pleased. The man is willing to take her directions. She allows him to get a head start, if only to collect his thoughts, knocks back her own drink in a single shot, and saunters down the long hall after the stranger.

Jackson, back in the circle, is impressed with his sister's diligence. "Wow. That was quick."

"That was awesome," Juice, who had been watching his friend in action – not unlike how he would have observed one of his brothers for tips he himself could implement – was in awe. "He was like a doe in the headlights."

Half-Sack grumbles bitterly. "Surprised she didn't order more booze to tap that corporate shill."

Chibs, who had remained passive, intensely fixates on the man's age. He can't help but wonder if the woman made a habit of sleeping with men who were noticeably older than herself. The thought stays with him as long as he is alone. It leaves him as soon as a brunette picks his hand up off the armrest and leads him to a private apartment of his own.

Schuyler returns to the group with her hair pulled back in a conspicuous ponytail less than twenty minutes later. She traces the same path to the couch that she had used to leave. She briefly notices Chibs has left the circle and finds herself disappointed. The realization of this leads her to pointedly note Bobby has fallen asleep in his chair. She expects many more patrons are soon be following in his lead.

Jackson is the first to notice her. "Where's your sex hair?"

"I wouldn't give you fucks the satisfaction." She takes back her vest from Half-Sack.

His only words to her are, "Guess he didn't last long."

"Told you he looked old," Juice comments crudely.

"Neither of you know the meaning of the word." Schuyler slides the leather over her arms. "Besides, I made a promise to Prospect and I'm willing to keep it. Give it here."

"What, really?" Half-Sack questions, already shucking off his kutte to hand over.

"Just a couple gal pals holding each other's purses. Go on before she finds someone with more balls." Schuyler folds the article of clothing in half to cover her arms. He runs off to catch up with the Latin woman he had sent away. Schuyler has every intention of reclining against the couch and relaxing back into the conversation. Until, she spots the man, whom she had left in the suite, creep out from the corridor.

The man makes a break for the exit . She lets him reach the center of the floor and line up parallel with herself. Then she yells to him over the music, saying, "You be sure to tell wifey I said, 'Hey'."

The man freezes as if he doesn't know how to continue. He feels a thousand eyes on him from anyone who is still conscious in the front of the house, and laughter rises like an impenetrable fortress from the earth to entrap him. He bolts out the teal doors. It's safe to assume he will not become a regular at the brothel, as was Schuyler's intention.

Not long after, and the atmosphere of the club alters for a second time. Someone behind the bar managed to turn the radio down to an even lower murmur sometime after four. No one has ordered drinks in quite some time and the billiard tables are no longer in use. It is safe to assume each of the suites is full and not a single couch is left unoccupied. No one is left standing as everyone has succumbed to sleep. Some have even passed out on the floor or are lounging across the crew's sacred table.

Alone in the once full circle, Schuyler sees Half-Sack has fallen asleep on a pool table. His clothes are askew in strategic places and the Latin woman is unconscious atop him. Schuyler finds herself smiling despite the obscenity of the scene. Both Jackson and Juice have since disappeared with a girl or two each on their arms and there is no sign of their immediate return. Schuyler no longer has an obligation to remain inside the brothel.

She plans to sneak out the door. Avoiding heads and fingers like landmines on her way and prop herself on her bike with her smartphone until the sun comes up. Then movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention.

Chibs staggers out from the corridor. A little more tired and intoxicated then when she last saw him. He fumbles a joint from his kutte, as he managed to successfully replace every article of clothing onto his person after the encounter with his latest conquest, and he returns to the cluster of furniture.

He plans to sit in his originally chosen seat and let his exhaustion consume him. Then he spots Schuyler in the circle. Alone and painfully awake. She is more aware of her own surroundings than he knows himself to be. For a moment he is conflicted, unsure whether he should offer her space or his company.

"Surprised to see you're still standing."

"Do ye mind?" Schuyler indicates for him to take the place beside her on the loveseat. When he sits, she suddenly finds the piece of furniture oddly cramped though not in an entirely negative way.

Schuyler watches him smoke and comes to the conclusion that it has been some time since they had last spoken. She's been awake for going on twenty-four hours, but for the life of her she can't figure out why or why the discovery should trouble her. "This your first Patch-Over?"

"Nope." Chibs' takes a drag.

"Me neither." And now she realizes why. "Think I'll finally go see Jax's kid this week."

"Already a handsome bairn." Chibs avoids Schuyler's eyes. He is unclear, in his compromised state, how to engage with the younger woman appropriately.

"He doesn't take after his father at all." A good laugh is enough to break the tension. They relax into the sofa a little more.

Schuyler turns to face Chibs. She hikes her knee onto the couch to make the distance between them feel a bit smaller. She notices something different about his appearance. More specifically, he has added a piece to his attire. A brown beaded rosary. Schuyler can't recall ever seeing him wear it. She is absolutely certain he hadn't been wearing it when she left with the stranger. It crosses her mind Chibs may have donned the accessory in the aftermath of his less than Christian act. The thought, though she finds it ridiculous, doesn't seem so ridiculous while she is sleep deprived. On the contrary, she finds it rather endearing.

Its Schuyler's hushed laughter that brings Chibs to face her. He is unsure why she is laughing. Then he sees she is staring at the beads resting on his chest. "Do you find me amusing?" A hand levitates to count several beads subconsciously. His voice is guarded as he prepares for an answer he may not like.

Schuyler smiles politely. She picks up Half-Sack's kutte that had been lying folded beside her. By doing so, she more or less naturally slides into Chibs' sphere. Her feet return to the hardwood floor and Chibs startles in his stupor when her leg unexpectedly settles along his. When she turns to face him again, she leans in close. Close enough to smell him, but also smell someone else on his skin and she knows he smells the same on her. "No, no. Not at all," she whispers in his ear. Then she pulls back far enough to gaze into his eyes. His eyes, she discovers, are brown. "Well, maybe just a little bit. A healthy amount." She considers his lips. "I assure you."

"Is that all?" The beads drop from his grasp and he considers leaning in to embrace her.

The exchange is over in an instant. She stands from the couch and crosses the room.

His eyes are on her as she walks away. Raking over her naturally blond hair, the Reaper on her back that stands as a warning (to him, in this moment, as much as to anyone else), and her hips that are swinging in the same fashion they were when she confronted the man at the bar. Chibs believes it is a more natural walk for her than her usual posture. The posturing she conducts herself with when surrounded by men who would take any sign of femininity as a weakness they could craft into a weapon to use against her.

Schuyler stops at the pool table Half-Sack is dozing on. She lifts his head gently and slides his vest underneath him. She looks back at Chibs and knows his eyes have been on her. The quirk of her eyebrow communicates she wants him to continue watching. Then she disappears out the teal doors.

Chibs' lips part slightly in a look of thoughtful contemplation. His mind flickering between new and old beliefs.

A delivery truck labeled Unser Shipping arrives on the scene mid-morning the following day. It parks halfway between the barn and the brothel jerking to a halt. Tig and Happy emerge from its cab. One is noticeably more eager to enter the establishment than the other.

"Where the hell have you been Trager?"

Schuyler is reclining backwards atop her V-rod. Her arms are crossed behind her head and she doesn't bother to look his way as she lobs insults in Tig's direction. "You missed a serious rager. Too bad no one missed having your chaotic ass around."

"See they kicked you out. Didn't you read the sign? No dicks, no risks, no service."

"Oh, don't you worry about me. I had my fill. And just because he wasn't a risk doesn't mean he didn't serve his purpose."

Tig visibly falters. He actually trips on the first stair. "Piss off!" he throws the expletive over his shoulder in the same moment he rips open the front door.

"Come on! You can do better than that."

Happy continues his menacingly methodical pace, but he does turn his head a crisp ninety degrees and glower at the woman in a sort of greeting. Schuyler raises a peace sign in his general direction. She understands that was Happy being his brand of friendly.

"There you are." Jackson appears from the same door the delivery crew disappear behind. He stomps down the slanted stairs feeling the effects from the night before having only slept a few hours. He crosses the lot and joins Schuyler straddling his Harley. "How long you been out here?"

"Rest of the night." Schuyler sits up. She throws her legs over the same side of the sturdy machine to face Jackson. "Since you and Juice up and ditched me." She had been awake to watch the sun rise. Now the sun is hanging low over the sandy desert and she faces the serene scenery.

"What can I say? You weren't half as entertaining," he replies with a laugh. "Maybe with red hair, I'd consider it."

"You would be so lucky." Schuyler reaches into her travel bag hanging off the back of her bike. She retrieves her emergency pack of cigarettes and offers one to Jackson. Payment for the ones he loaned her the day before. "I can't sleep in places like this." She taps the bottom of the pack and a cancer stick falls into her hand. "No matter how old I get, no matter how much booze gets in me."

"Don't tell me you're homesick." Jackson lights his tube with it hanging halfway in his mouth. "Is it the couches that bother you? Can't imagine sleeping on the bike would be any better."

Schuyler is really quiet for a time. The minutes creep on as the sun climbs higher and the companions take turns blowing smoke rings towards the distant horizon. She finds the way to answer him is to do so while simultaneously popping each and every joint in her hands. Twice. A nervous habit.

"I can't sleep in a clubhouse that isn't my own. Without my brothers on every side of me."

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh'."

"You're careful 'bout what you drink."

"I've only been really hammered a hand full of times," Schuyler admits through gritted teeth. She understands her tendency for caution can be viewed as a weakness in her circles. Until she finds a socially acceptable loophole and she smirks again. "I'm designated driver."

"That why I always see you turning down dope?"

"I hate weed. It doesn't agree with me." She rubs her tired eyes. "I know my limits."

"Most of us don't." Jackson throws his leg over the bike to mirror Schuyler. He inhales smoke and holds it in his lungs. "Has it always been like this?"

Schuyler can feel Jackson's eyes on her as she avoids looking directly at him. There's a question on his mind that he feels he should ask but he doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"I'm never one to be caught off guard."

Jackson exhales slowly. "Has anyone ever tried –"

"No." Her eyes don't stray from the morning light. "I've never experienced anything close to what you're imaging. Men have tried, sure. And I've heard every threat you can imagine. But no. I'm usually the one breaking that shit up. I've seen a lot of it, but never had a direct run-in, you know?"

For the first time since her patching, Jackson realizes how limited Schuyler's access is and how truly ostracized she must feel on a regular basis. Regardless that the reason may be dressed up for her own protection, it's just an excuse. The truth is she is held at arms' length from the club she is meant to be a part of. Always on the outside looking in. "Does that have anything to do with you turning down the company of that Sweetbutt?"

"Don't call her that!" Schuyler doesn't hesitate now to stare Jackson down, correcting his crude choice in language.

"Sorry." Jackson raises his hands in surrender. In the process he drops his cigarette and stamps it out.

"Another necessary precaution," Schuyler explains. "I had to write my own bylaws. No hang-arounds, no patches, no clients. Hell, did that once and the dumbass is still calling me."

"No shit. You leave him sweating?" Jackson ventures to make a joke.

"He was a high school friend who slipped through the cracks."

Jackson admires the woman across from him. He knew she was resourceful but hadn't imagined she could be so strong. He finds himself not wanting her to feel on the outside of his club. Outside of her own chapter. He wants her to feel as safe in California as she did in Texas. "I want to show you something."

They leave without a word to anyone else at the compound. Jackson knows the exact location he wants to go without having to consult a map. Less than a mile from the Nevada border underneath an overpass there is a hovel in the middle of the desert. Jackson and Schuyler park their bikes above said overpass. Jackson straps his overnight bag to his shoulders and the duo trek under the bridge together.

"There's this place dad use to go," Jackson begins as they descend the shifting terrain. "Said he was hiking along the border one day. Stumbled upon it."

The two duck out of the Nevada sun. Jackson walks the length of the wall and stops to wipe his bandana over the sand dusted stones. "First place he read this. The words that started it all."

"Anarchism," Schuyler reads aloud. Standing side by side they read the long quote in comfortable silence. "I don't remember Eddie ever mentioning this in any of his stories. Do you think JT ever brought him here?"

"I know if he shared this place with anyone, it was with your old man." Jackson watches Schuyler trace the last few letters of the writting with a finger. A hidden relic of their collective history. "I just found out about this place myself."

"How'd you manage to do that after so long?"

"I was getting some stuff out of storage for my son." Jackson says while shifting his weight on his feet. He clutches the satchel to his side a bit tighter. "Came across John's old boxes. Pictures, journals, that stuff. I remembered reading about this and wanted to check it out. Said it "lit a rebellious fire" inside him. When he read it, he would have been the same age I was when he died…"

"Why are you telling me this Jax?" Schuyler's voice is sympathetic, her eyes comforting.

"I wanted you to see this, to remind you of what our dads'," Jackson indicates the wall beside them, "wanted for the club. Social order and the free grouping of individuals. Not tyranny."

"You wanted to prove to me Clay is losing his way."

"He doesn't give a shit if the Mayans roll right through Indian Hills. I need your help to make sure we stick around long enough, so that Jury has some back up when they do. We're not going to start turning our back on our brothers."

Schuyler ponders his words. "Well now. Who says we have to wait around for the Mayans to make the first move?"

"How do you mean?"

One town over from Indian Hills is where the clubhouse of the Mayans MC Nevada chapter resides. Jackson knew the precise routes to take in order to avoid being seen. The pair drives right up to the rivals' front door and idle their bikes.

Schuyler leaves the key in the ignition and leans her bike on its kickstand. With her helmet still on, she pulls her riding gloves tighter and walks to the end of a line of Mayans' customized motorcycles. She places her foot on the tailpipe of the first bike. A few feet away she is barely able to understand the words Jackson says into his prepay over the running motors.

"Looks like Jury is going to have back up when the Mayan shit goes down." Jackson pauses as he receives an answer. "I'm on my way back. And I'm not alone!"

Jackson stashing his flip phone is the cue she needs to use all her strength to kick the motorcycle over. It falls into the one beside it. A domino effect occurs knocking over four more.

Schuyler hops on her motorcycle. She stands straddling the machine to close the kickstand. Meanwhile, Jackson revs his engine louder and louder. Schuyler stands tall on one foot on top of the bike's seat, lifting the other in the air mockingly exhibiting her ability to balance, as the bar's doors are flung open in a hurry. Mayans pour out in drones as the blonds peel out of the parking lot. Schuyler, in her rush to drop to the seat, still manages to put on a show. She catches air, popping a wheelie as she ramps over a curb. This move puts her on the open highway, and she clears past Jackson who had had a head start. She catches sight of him fisting the air in her sideview mirror.

The compound enters their collective view, but the layout has been altered. The truck hauling the product has been relocated and there isn't a single motorcycle in the parking lot. The barn doors are closed, which would explain the lack of vehicles, and the windows are shuttered on the brothel. The bar cleared the way for the duos' arrival.

Schuyler banks a hard right when she enters the lot and her back-wheel slides about twelve inches sideways before dangerously coming to a stand-still. She proceeds to rev her engine calling for the doors to be opened. Jackson appears beside her equally in control of his ride.

The two bikes ramp up the slanted staircase when the bar's doors are flung open on their hinges and drive straight through the center of the bar room. They hastily whip off their helmets and reach for their weapons at the same time the enemy enters the compound. Ammunition is sprayed clean through the open doors as the allies duck out of the firing zone.

The blonds join the battle. With the Mayans stationary in there firing squad, the collective members storm out of the bar. Several Sons flank alongside the compound wall and flip the picnic tables over on their sides to use as protective shields. A second wave files into the lot. Jackson and Tig act as human shields for the two Presidents who duck behind a civilian's car parked at the front for additional cover. Schuyler and Bobby move in the option direction and stand in front of a passerby's truck to return fire.

The SOA had a plan to tip the scales in their favor. From behind the bar, a secondary group appears holding double barrel shotguns that were stored in the bar. Happy is leading them as the group draws closer and closer to box the enemy in from both sides. One of the Mayans takes a bullet in the shoulder, another catches a shot in the ribs, and all their bikes are shredded from the surprise attack. The Mayans, severally outnumbered by the residing members, turn tail and flee the premises.

As the enemies leave, they continuously pop off rounds. Needles takes a bullet in the leg and drops in front of the teal doors. Schuyler lowers her pistol momentarily only to feel her left arm start to burn. Blood drains where a bullet grazed near her left elbow and lodged inside the truck's body behind her. She feels Bobby pull on her shoulder from behind and lets him drag her behind the vehicle.

The hail storm of bullets dies as abruptly as it started.

The Sons' regroup inside the brothel's primary room to find the building sustained most of the damages. Needles is taken to an apartment room to have the bullet removed and his wound patched up. Schuyler wraps a gray bandana she keeps in a pocket of her kutte around her arm and it eventually stops bleeding. The guns were transported safely to the compound, the bikes are undamaged, and the club is, luckily, completely intact.

"How does that feel?" Jackson sits next to Schuyler on a barstool. Clay is on the other side of Jackson and acknowledges his question waiting for Schuyler's reply.

"Not even worth wasting a Band-Aid over. It's no fun if it doesn't leave a scar, right?"

Jury saddles up to the bar with an update. "Cleared the Chief's book debt. We're covered. What happens now? I'm probably gonna lose a couple more guys 'cause of this."

Clay's words are not half as comforting as he means for them to be. "Well there won't be another hit for a while. That pop-off was only about dick size. They wanted to let us know they're watching."

Jackson extends his consideration where Clay failed to. "Vegas will stick around for a while. Until the Mayans get the message about your status increase."

"Appreciate that." Jury and Jackson nod in mutual forgiveness and understanding.

Clay stands from his stool. "Brother." He embraces Jury.

Jackson stands to do the same. He whispers apologetically to Jury. Then Jury walks away to tend to his maimed establishment.

"You two want to tell me what the fuck happened out there?" Clay's glare in unyielding when he is once again surrounded by his own people.

"It was my fault Clay." Schuyler takes the fall. "I didn't sleep a wink last night. Wanted to go for a ride to clear my head. Jax wouldn't let me go alone. I didn't know the routes to avoid and they spotted me first."

"That's right," Jackson confirms. "You saw the rest play out."

From a distance, Chibs and Tig approach to join the conversation seeing their charter regroup to formulate a game plan. Tig nods a greeting to Schuyler and she allows the two of them to enter into the inner circle.

Tig nods at Schuyler's injury. "Bet the other guy looks worse."

Schuyler jokes, "The other guy won't be able to sit for a few days." The two share a brief laugh.

Clay refocuses the conversation by laying out the works. "Juice will stick around and watch over the AK assembly."

Tig offers, "I'll have Vegas bring up some illegals. You know, help him out."

"Oh, and," Clay's tone is completely serious. He directs Tig's attention to the corridor where three scantily clad women emerge, sauntering into the light. Tig's reward for driving the cargo truck. "I got some helpers for you."

"No, really?" Tig feigns a look of wonder and surprise.

"I know."

"I love you."

"You don't deserve it."

"No, I love all of you. Yes, I do. Come here." He breaks from the group to wrap his arms around each of the women's waists. "Uno, dos, tres, let's go!" Tig cackles madly all the way down the corridor into one of the apartments furthest away.

"You stick around, will ya," Clay asks of Chibs. "Make sure him and Juicy get some work done. They don't come back with any new acronyms on their health records."

Chibs answers him with a resounding chuckle. "You got it." He is more than happy to loiter in Jury's stable for a while longer. He hits Jackson on the back and nods to Schuyler to bid them goodbye. Then he walks off to locate Juice.

Jackson has a request to make of Clay. "Look, I wanna go back to see the kid. I'll ride with Happy and his guys."

"I'd like to head back too. That is if you don't need me to stick around here boss," Schuyler states more than she asks permission. "I do good to keep my eyes open for thirty-six hours. Any more, and I'll be pushing it."

"You did what you came here to do. You're relieved of duty."

As the two companies stroll off Clay walks back to the bar and takes a seat beside his Secretary. "How's he doing?"

"Hard to say," Bobby replies.

"What about Schuyler? Did she cop to anything?"

"Told me I was imaging things," Bobby says with a cocked eyebrow.

"I got anything to worry about with them?"

Bobby takes a deep, steading breath. "Not yet."

Author's Notes:

How closely were you paying attention while reading? Did you notice that Jackson considered revealing his father's manuscript to Schuyler only to pull back in the last minute? What does this mean for their developing friendship?

Don't sleep on the fact that the bandana Schuyler keeps with her is gray, who knows when that nugget of information may be relevant. And, yes, she has officially come out to a majority of the club as bisexual. More jokes of this nature and Schuyler's attempts to curve her brother's less than PC opinions will start to flow from this point onward. It all has plot relevance!

Does Schuyler's approval of Cherry mean anything for her relationship with Half-Sack? And what does it mean for Schuyler's standing with the charter if Bobby and Clay seem to be keeping a close eye on her?

Find out the answers to all of your burning questions in the next instalment of TROD!


	8. Second Gen

**Author's Notes:**

Major Series Updates:  
Chapters 8 and 9 (this one and the following one) are new and will be published by the end of the day 7/1/20. If chapter 9 is not yet posted by the time you finish reading 8 be sure to check back in a couple of hours. It's a chapter you will not want to miss! Notice I have also upped the anticipated number of chapters for the series! Good news all around!

All 9 chapters will be edited and up-to-date by this same deadline (7/1/20). Most corrections made in chapters involve minor grammatical and spelling corrections (thank you to those who sat through reading me spell 'passed' like 'past'; I have corrected these and will be aware of this word in the future). Minor changes have also been made to dialogue (primarily Chibs' speech has been altered to better fit his accent) and to make some of the canon character's dialogue more original to my own writing (but this change has only occurred in select scenes). And I have now capitalized all instances where the term 'Patch(es)' is used to refer to a club member to make for an easier distinction between sewn on flashes and members. Understand no plot/story ideas have been altered and all developed relationships have remained the same. You can continue reading the story from this point on without being lost.

This is yet another long, but important chapter. Many relationships are touched on and developed in new and meaningful ways. It was important for me to post these two chapters together (I am making up for missing the upload last month and highly anticipate not being able to upload for August or September due to school. School takes precedent. Thank you for understanding!). Plus I want to celebrate having two chapters complete at once! The chapters are divided in a very glaringly purposeful way. Chapter 8 is again the longest instalment to date while chapter 9 is by far the shortest. Why will become clear as you read. Chapter 9 is very much a standalone chapter and I was sure to treat it as such. And I'm not so mean as to leave you will such a major, slap in the face, cliffhanger. That honor will be left up to the wait for chapter 10!

Enough stalling. Please enjoy the next couple of chapters of TROD...

"Thanks for coming out to see him. Really means a lot that you would."

"Can't wait to see what the fuss is about."

Jackson and Schuyler are walking into St. Thomas' hospital. The clinic is two stories tall and every floor is paved in white linoleum tile. Jackson's son lives in a private room on the second floor and is among high-risk patients. The child is kept in a corridor between the cancer ward and a cramped chapel which offers one measly row of pews for its visitors to find their solace in. The entire building screams 'sterile' and stands in sharp contrast with the dirty, rugged vests on the Patches' backs.

"I want you to do something else for me." Jackson steps up to a check-in desk. "I know you're picking up a shift tonight and everyone's stretched thin, but Gemma hosts this fundraiser for the community every year and it'd be great if you'd come out. Support her."

Schuyler ponders his request. "That 'Taste of Charming'-thing? I've seen the posters. Your mother is behind it?"

Jackson acknowledges the irony. "You've seen how charitable she can be."

"I can make it. Best to support the family in power, right?"

"No doubt."

"You're goin' to do something for me in return."

"That so?" Jackson flashes an award-winning smile.

"Been putting together a sort of charitable act of my own. I'll give you the time and location. Just need you to show up, and not complain about it too much. Those who do won't go if you're not there."

"Whatever you need. Can I ask what it is you're planning?"

"Don't try to ruin my surprise. And don't go telling Clay either! Especially with the money issues we're facing. He finds out…He'll ground me so hard he'll burry me in a coffin for my time-out."

They are given visitors passes, a minimum of off-putting glances, and directed towards the dimly light NICU room. Since his birth, the infant has scarcely known more than the four walls of this room having been held within an incubation chamber for going on four weeks' time.

"His name is Abel."

"Of course, it is." They sit in identical, dull white chairs next to the child who is lying in a clear plastic pod bundled in blue cloths. Their movements are controlled so they do not disturb him.

Abel is asleep on his back. His nose and eyelids twitch periodically signaling he's in the middle of a dream. Though he has been under careful ministrations since his birth, he remains severally under-weight and has not grown into his age bracket. Wires are laid around him to monitor his vitals. "Certainly, suits him. I bet you're happy he got your best features."

"Still has Wendy's nose."

"Yeah. I've been meaning to ask. Where is the mother these days?"

Jackson's eyes are firmly on his son. "She's checking into rehab. Again. I made it clear she's to keep her distance. She'll be leaving Charming soon." His right hand is resting on the heavy-duty support table holding Abel aloft. "It's just us now." He sports a look of pride that goes unmatched by no one. To see Jackson, one would never guess he had been involved in a shoot-out days prior.

"Look at that," Schuyler muses. "A month old and the kid's got his little hooks into you." Jackson braces, having expected the same level of chiding from Schuyler over his having daddy-fever as he had received from his brothers. "I get it man. Beau was like that too. With all three. He never got tired of it."

"What about you miss fearless? Does a momma bear live inside you?"

Schuyler watches Abel. His head turns to face her and his eyelids flutter. "Leave the title to Gemma. Not really my speed. But I'm always free to babysit. Should you ever get tired of playing the part."

"Oh shit." Jackson's mood sours. His every responsibility comes crashing down on him.

"Easy. He can hear you in there."

"Sorry little man. Daddy's gotta get to work."

Jackson stands from his chair and Schuyler parrots him. They distance themselves from the view of a large window which is utilized to look in on the chamber and speak in the corner out of sight from any nurses who may be making their rounds in the halls.  
"I've gotta go meet Clay at Stockton. We've got a contact on the inside. Says he may have a lead. Could help out with our Irish "beer" debt. Think it involves the club doing some babysitting for a while."

"Sweet. Want me to call around? Bring in anyone not already at TM?"

"Thanks for looking out. Say we'll meet at the table in an hour." Jackson turns to glance towards his son. What he is faced with is a man in business casual attire wrapped up in a green cargo jacket. The man is peering blatantly into the room observing Abel. Jackson nods to the man who in turn nods back but he doesn't make a move to leave the square window pane on his own.

Schuyler leans to hide her face behind Jackson. "The hell does he want?"

They step outside to confront the man. His face is welcoming, but his posture is hunched awkwardly.

"Can I help you?" Jackson's voice is neutral.

The man's face grows sad. Apologetic, in a way. But it is obviously not for having spied on the private family interaction. "That's a…that's a beautiful boy. Is he both of yours?"

"No." – "Not even close."

The man's eyes convey he knew the answer already. A small smirk tugs at his frowning lips.

"He's mine."

"My mistake then." The man takes a few timid steps backwards making sure he will be allowed to leave before he disappears through a set of double doors as quickly as he appeared.

"He was too thin to be Father Christmas," Schuyler snarks. "Had too many white teeth in his head to be the Tooth Fairy."

Jackson draws a breath, his face inquisitive. "Did a damn good job of hiding a badge."

"Or he left his white collar in the car." The two spit ball ideas about the man's identity but, ultimately, they have work to attend to and chalk the man up to being an eccentric passerby.

When Schuyler arrived at Teller-Morrow she took a head count of who was present. She ended up having to phone Piney and Opie. The two hadn't attended church in a few weeks and were again reluctant when receiving her phone call. However, she was able to persuade them. When the stragglers showed up, she herded everyone into the chapel in anticipation for their superiors' arrival.

"I'll bite." Schuyler is sitting across the redwood table from Opie. Opie is sitting straight up in his seat with his arms crossed in front of him. A black inked tattoo written in Latin is staring Schuyler in the face from his forearm. "You'll have to tell me what it says."

Opie unfolds his arms to stroke a hand over the word and relaxes again. "Didn't any one ever teach you it's impolite to ask a man such a sensitive question?"

"I've made a habit of sleeping with people to get tattoo stories out of 'em." Juice hastily makes like he's going to remove his shirt and kutte beside her. She elbows him hard in the chest. "They're more enticing when covered up, smartass. Humor me."

"Tatum Deus," Opie replies flippantly. "'Only God will judge me'."

"My guess was in the right ballpark. Solid."

"You have to share one of yours," Opie insists. "Fair's fair."

"Mine are hard to get to." Juice peers into her lap comedically for his brothers' amusement as much as his own. "They aren't that exciting." She prepares to elbow him again. He reflexively shoves his hands against the table to escape her attack. In doing so, he tips his wooden chair backwards into Half-Sack who is sitting against the wall behind him.

The prospect counters Juice by forcing him back into the table. Juice has the element of surprise when he leaps from his seat and drags Half-Sack off his chair. The younger is more agile allowing him to gain the upper hand. They topple to the floor in their head rush to take each other down. During which time, Jackson enters the chapel. Lacking a President in the room, the rough housing continues as does the leisurely conversation.

"Can't imagine Eddie was very happy when you went and did that," Piney engages with her.

"My father had no say in the matter. And probably didn't see my ink for several weeks." Schuyler laughs, undoubtedly remembering her father's face the first time he had.  
Jackson joins the conversation at the opposite end of the table. "Any club ties?"

"Hell no. Shit's bad luck, like getting names."

"You saying you don't want to be caught with a link to the club?" Tig interjects. As a man with club tattoos of his own, he converts his question into a criticism of the woman's capacity to be loyal.

Schuyler has a sensible answer for everything. "No one enters a marriage planning to divorce. Never know. I might want an early retirement in recognition for my vast accomplishments. Would still have to black them out if I left in good standings."

Piney's eyes shine with certainty. "I'd give the kutte off my back before believing you left the club willingly, sweetheart."

"You really want to prove your loyalty," Bobby says through a puff of smoke, "you should get the patch."

Schuyler's eyes grow wide with anxiety. "That's a lot of ink to put on a not so fun place."

"Scared of the needle?" Bobby's winding snake tattoo covers a fair portion of his arm. On the ground, Juice rolls Half-Sack into a filing cabinet.

"I think she fears commitment," Chibs chimes. Though he appears to be half listening.

"I thought about it once," Schuyler admits. She gestures to her person. "Beau. He's covered, including the patch. Tried to talk me into it but I wasn't down for it at the time. He'd probably kick my ass if I turned up with it, no warning, and he wasn't there to watch me get it."

Jackson gestures to Opie. "Remember when we got ours? Coyote gave us a two for one."

"What was that, 'bout six months in? Hurt for the rest of the first year to wear the kutte." The two laugh reminiscently.

"Now that I'm older, I can probably trust myself to get it." Schuyler considers, "I've been itching for a new piece. Maybe if I could get permission to have the tat altered. Recognizable but personal, you know."

"You're better off saving a dime than getting covered up in that shit." Piney offers his ancient wisdom. "That's one habit you'd do better to keep from copying." Schuyler abruptly stands from the table and pats her hands across Piney's shoulders while stepping around him. "Where are you going?" he demands.

She stops to lean over his shoulder and addresses the table with her declaration. "Oh, I'm heading over to the closest parlor I can find."

The table bursts at the seams. Piney good-naturedly drags her off his shoulders and back into her seat. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do old man. That's a lesson you're goin' to learn quick!"

"Cut the chit-chat!" Clay shouts his entry line. "Let's remember we have a job to do."

Half-Sack is quick up from the ground and back to his chair to give the President his full attention. Juice follows him, pushing the lackey's head into a wall and sits while knocking into Schuyler for having insinuated the good-natured tussle in the first place.

Jackson opens the meeting with information on a club contact. "Big Otto's got a job for us. Been watching this guy, Chuckie, inside and he's getting out today."

"Chuck was a bookkeeper for the Asian mob. Only he was taking more than he was due. Skimmed four hundred k off Henry Lin's crew," Clay summarizes. A collected groan is heard in response to the exuberant amount. "Thing is Chuck blew the whistle and cut a deal. Lin wants him to collect on a debt."

Tig says, "The punk's a thief and a rat. What's his baggage got to do with us?"

"Otto worked out a deal," Jackson explains. "We pick up Chuckie, protect him 'til we get our hands on the cash, then get him out of Cali. Keep him away from Lin." Jackson takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke creates a trail behind his gesturing hands. "We'll split the cash with Chucky-boy. Keep twenty-five percent. Otto wants his twenty-five going to his Oldlady."

"It ain't gonna be a walk in the park," Bobby shakes his head. "Lin's every bit as cunning as his old man was. He's gonna be ready for us."

"That's why we're gonna keep this place sealed up as tight as a steel vault." Clay states, "We'll work three-man shifts. Chuck never leaves the clubhouse. And the garage is open for pickups only."

Jackson continues. "We pick up Chuckie in three hours, keep him here 'til Sunday. Skim's hidden in one of Lin's restaurants fronts. Grab the cash when the place is closed. Send the guy up north Monday."

"We pull this one off," Chibs acknowledges, "We'll have half what we need to pay McKeavy."

"That's right."

"Yeah, I have a proposal to make that has to do with our debt," Piney rasps from his end of the table. "An old platoon buddy of mine reached out last week. Nate, he's turned into one of those survival nuts. Him and a bunch of guys from boot camp are out in the woods playing, you know, capture the flag, three-legged relay race, shit like that. Wants to know if I'm willing to sell to him. I know it may not rake in a whole heap, but –"

"Save the speech," Clay asks Piney to cease and desist. "Every cent helps. We can shake loose some hardware, the best to stiffen up any conspiracy theorist's pants. If they can pay, let them play." Piney nods his gratitude. "After we hand off Chuckie to the Oregon charter, you, me, and Bobby will go deal to your pal."

There are murmurs of agreement for the future scheduled proceedings. With them comes movement suggesting Clay is expected to adjourn the meeting. Rather, the ex-military man adopts a tired expression and runs a hand down his face. "Wait a minute. Something else has come up."

"I had a talk with Gem outside. April Hobert wants to know if her Oldman can come to the fundraiser to see his kid's band play." The table turns hostile. Jackson and Opie exchange stressed expressions.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jackson starts.

"That's done, Pres." Tig scratches irritably at his facial hair.

Schuyler is at a loss as to whom is being referred to or why the club has a collective issue with the man. She nudges Juice to inquire him, but he is also unfamiliar with the name. She buts in. "Rewind the tape for a sec. Who's Hobert?"

"He's excommunicated," is Clay's simplistic answer.

Tig gives a more detailed one. "He's the coward responsible for Opie's vaca up in Stockton. Was driving the getaway car. Turned tail when he saw red and blue."

"No shit." Schuyler turns her attention to Opie.

Jackson educates Juice. "Kyle's the reason I let you start prospecting when I did."

"Worse than a coward." Piney stubs out his joint to channel his anger somewhere productive. "Damn traitor. Didn't deserve the chances he was given."

"I know." Clay is less than excited by the notion himself. "But this isn't about Kyle. It's about his kid whose father has never seen his band play. It's for April who divorced the prick and kept supporting us. This is Gem's ask for the club. Figured I'd throw it up for a vote."

"Let him come," Opie speaks defiantly between nibbles on his bottom lip.

"Are you serious, Opie?" Jackson consults his sibling.

Clay sets a stern face. "This can't be about getting even. Not at Gemma's event."

"It's not about that," Opie insists. "'s been hard settling back in. You know, I haven't been out all that long. Do good for me to see him these days. Without the club, he ain't got half what I got to be thankful for. I could use the reminder."

Schuyler asks, "It's your beef with this guy?" Opie nods stoically. "It's Op's decision. Let the guy come." Several others nod their agreement with her point.

"Anybody oppose?" Clay asks the table.

"Yeah, me." Tig is as vocal as ever.

Piney speaks up, thinking himself sticking up for his son's best interest. "Yeah, I don't agree with it."

No one else speaks. All Tig can do is protest. "This is wrong, man." But it doesn't change the outcome.

Clay announces his final decree. "Majority rule. Vote passes. Let him come."

The table stands to migrate through the double doors. Half-Sack lags behind the Patched members to empty the ashtrays.

"Hey," Clay orders, "you all better be at that fund-raiser tomorrow unless you want your eyes plucked out with a hundred-dollar manicured nails."

Juice heckles his sitting President. "You gonna be there?"

Clay winks at Schuyler. "Are you kidding me? I'd rather have my dick cut off!"

While Jackson and Bobby try their best to scold the crude joke, everyone else bursts into hysteria. Schuyler mockingly replies, "I'm so proud that's going to be my legacy in Charming!"

On their way out, Juice catches Schuyler by the arm. "You wanna kill a few hours in the garage? Watch me work before the pickup."

"Can't. Got some business to attend to before I pick up the second shift at the clinic."

"They keep doing you dirty. That's the third shift change in a month. When do you get to pick your hours?"

"It's coming any day." Schuyler extends her own invitation. "Are you gonna be my wingman at Gemma's gig?"

"Pulling a double in the garage to cover for Bobby. He's doing his Elvis tomorrow."

"Shit, really? Hell, well, no worries man. Nos Vemos?"

Juice's expression conveys he is trying to remember something. "I'll see you…around?"

"'We'll see you.' Like, we will."

"We'll see you," he repeats the words with the innocence of a grade schooler. "Nos Vemos."

"You're getting it! I'll bring you back my winnings from the raffle. I'm feeling lucky."

The business Schuyler has to attend to, which she would never admit to the charter, involves her laptop, and several hours spent on Skype. She prioritizes time each week to touch base with the folks she left in Texas. Some get the full run down of club proceedings, minus affiliates, time stamps, and locations for cautionary reasons. Some get a warm smile and a heartfelt 'I miss you' before they go on telling her about their own week. It is time well spent on her part. Phone calls and FaceTime is the activity furthest away from any one of Schuyler's daily responsibilities.

The irony, however vague, is not lost on her. Hours of communicating through muffled microphones with Beau's toddlers who use her to practice their speech skills, exhausted parents, and her own mother who is technologically illiterate, reminds Schuyler to be grateful she is no longer in the same state as those she is making a concerted effort to converse with. She doesn't have to put up with their domestic squabbles on a day to day basis anymore. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

"I don't understand how you manage to change settings when you know I'm goin' to call you every damn week." Schuyler is lounging on her newly purchased couch with a hot cup of tea steaming in arms-reach. A laptop is propped on her outstretched legs.

Samantha is set up on a sectional in her living room. The middle-aged woman has often been accused of looking identical to her daughter. The physical differences between the women comes down to a matter of age and the trouble Samantha is having with wrestling a one-hundred-pound dog into a stable sitting position. Samantha is frazzled from her attempts to connect to the call. The sound of her daughter's voice through the computer screen is enough to send the pit bull into a frenzy and does nothing to ease her nerves.

"Your mutt tramples the keyboard." Samantha's warm southern bell accent shines through in so few words since she is unconcerned with repressing it like her daughter.

Schuyler addresses the dog by cooing to him. "Krueger, siéntate."

The patch colored canine paws at Samantha's jeans, tries in vain to step off the couch to paw the computer, and huffs a low sigh of frustration. He relents by lying next to Samantha on the sofa and resting his beefy head in her lap. His eyes remain firmly on his owner's face on the laptop.

Samantha's limbs slump. Her cheerful smile livens up her face making her glow. "He doesn't like to make it easy on me. He was waitin' by the computer today for you to call."

Schuyler playfully mocks the absurdity of her pet's personality. "He's smarter than most. Best bargain-hound around. Should be him on runs with me."

"Exercise would do him wonders. Was able to wrangle some of the guys into coming over Saturday. Beau brought the kids. Finally hitting him –," Samantha rubs his snout fondly. "— how empty this big house really is these days."

Though Samantha hadn't intended for her to, Schuyler feels a pang of guilt. She finds it hard to look her mother in the face through the webcam. "He's better off with you. Can't go changing too much on him. The move would have been too hard. And you need someone to safeguard the house."

"If I can run bill collectors out of the shop, I can hold my own against a home-invader." It's clear where Schuyler gets her sense of fashion. Samantha has been wearing the same attire for her daughter's entire life and is always in line with the club's signature style. She is wearing a t-shirt she personally ironed a SOA symbol onto, and her faded blue jeans are tucked into knee-high stiletto boots. Though her leather boots are more feminine than those the club wears and are not built for comfort.

Samantha does her best to cheer Schuyler up. By doing so, she reveals exactly where Schuyler learned her sense of humor. "And the garage turned a profit last quarter, not that you would have asked."

"You've always been the more business-minded."

"That's always been your excuse. Working a shift at the clinic tonight?"

"Working second shift. It'll free me up for the weekend. Club's partaking in a charity gig the next couple of days."

"Does this charity thing have a dual purpose of disguising club business? Or are the boys up there doing it out of the kindness of their patriotic, American-born hearts?" Being the resentful widow of a service member, Samantha gets by with making more of these sorts of unsympathetic jokes than Schuyler does.

"No shenanigans," Schuyler promises. She draws an 'X' over her chest and flashes a peace sign. "The President's wife is giving back to the community and is making sure us kids get our service hours in."

Samantha is no stranger to fundraising. It is most often she who plays the role of the contact. The person who legitimate charity organizations feel comfortable getting in touch with before deciding to partner with the MC which has a spotty past across the board. "I know you love the practice. There's not a day goes by I'm not proud of you for getting your degree. I think it's great to show you can hold down a nine to five. Just make sure it isn't cutting into your extracurriculars."

Such a sentiment would normally be reserved for a parent lecturing a rebellious teenage, yet Schuyler recalls hearing her mother make remarks of a similar nature during her residency. "Was there ever a time when you wouldn't have been referring to the club?"

"I actually had our show in mind." The television show Samantha quips about is a weekly comedic news program the two have watched for years. Neither had hardly ever missed an episode. Even going so far as to sneak off in the middle of official club events. The primary reason being Schuyler has had a crush on the host since she was a child. "If you work too late, you're goin' to miss seeing your Oldman tonight."

"Bullshit. I don't care how late it is when I get home, I'm still watching it. He doesn't care if I'm late. That's why I'm 'with him'." They share a familiar laugh and can forget the distance dividing them.

"Anyway. How are things inside the club? What was this week's tragedy? Or if you want, you can play medium and predict what next week's heartache will be."

"There doesn't actively have to be a catastrophe taking place." Schuyler drops her arm on the couch. The motion retracts the remnants of the bullet wound she received (now mostly healed) from the frame. "There was a small get together at the start of this week."

"Patched in the prospect you told me about or was it a family reunion?" Samantha flexes her club knowledge having more experience than most. Edward told his Oldlady everything which is how their relationship survived the club.

"It was a little bigger than that. Patched-Over a neighboring state's MC."

"No shit! How many chapters represented?"

"Three, I think. I don't exactly remember the whole night."

"He must have been cute then." Samantha is no stranger to club gatherings. After all, she spent the better part of her adulthood indulging in the perks of club culture herself. She never misses a chance to talk 'men' with her daughter who also happens to be her best friend.

Schuyler shrugs her shoulders dismissively. "Yeah, he was alright. Didn't have any ink on him which is always a disappointment." Though it is not the memory of the hook up Schuyler is actively trying to scrub from her mind.

Samantha parrots her daughter's action by rolling her own shoulders and dismissing the topic showing she shares Schuyler's stance. "Have you been keeping in touch with anyone besides your partner in crime?"

"Finally got a hold of R.K last week. Was thinking of ringing Zipper. Gotta make sure he isn't tarnishing my good name. Ethan agreed to set up a meeting with me. Keep me in the loop. At least for the foreseeable future." Schuyler knows there will come a day when the novelty will wear off. Her running track record with the southern charter will fade into history and she will no longer be invited into SAMTEX's personal proceedings and secrets. The thought frightens her more than she is willing to let on.

Samantha acts exasperated. "Such a diplomat. You don't have to schedule a meeting to reach out to an old friend. Ethan would be delighted to hear from you! Some of this shit is supposed to be fun on occasion." With the intuition of a mother and a wife of a club President, Samantha is willing the delay of the fateful day when her child will be cut off from her pack.

"It's never fun working for a living." Schuyler's next words are spoken with conviction, yet she doesn't first take their weight into account. The specific phrase is one which had been spoken to her countless times during her upbringing. She repeats them as naturally as she breathes. "'Celebrations proceed executions'."

Edward's words echo throughout their empty dwellings. A heaviness takes root in their minds. "Eddie would be proud of you, you know. Taking those boys under your wing. Stepping up to the challenge of jumping charters on your own."

Schuyler smiles remorsefully. "It's nothing like the charter he left, but they're still Sons. They've always been family. We're just spending some time getting reacquainted."

The 'Taste of Charming' is an annual fundraiser primarily orchestrated by Gemma and sponsored by SAMCRO. This year's funds are being raised for the local school district. The consequence is the event is being held at the high school. Set up around the athletic field's perimeter are booths housing food stands, face painting stations, and raffles. On the turf sits picnic tables, inflatable bounce houses, and makeshift carnival games. Judging by appearance, the entire town has turned out to show their support for a worthy cause.

Parking is pushing capacity in the meager high school lot. Among the patrons is a portion of the Reaper Crew. Each is proudly sporting a kutte for this public demonstration. Even the one in a bedazzled, rented costume.

"So, Bobby, are you supposed to be Elvis recording his first album or his last?" Schuyler cracks a joke. The group of three is waiting for the gig worker on the sidewalk. His helmet has gotten caught on his black wig.

"Party City was out of fat suits," Bobby retorts. He manages to free his helmet and joins the group. "You're getting young Elvis today."

Tig snickers back. "It wasn't his worst album."

Jackson breaks off from the pack and encourages his friends to continue inside without him. "Go check in with Gemma." He makes a b-line for a beige truck. Opie emerges along with two children and a woman whom Schuyler recognizes having seen once outside the grocery store on Main Street. She's glad to see Donna, as she recalls the name Gemma gave her, partaking in her husband's affairs. She hopes it is a good sign.

They go ahead of Jackson to locate his mother. Gemma is single handedly manning a raffle ticket booth while dealing out directions to the bodies bustling around her. "You're late, Elvis! The kids are waiting."

Bobby rushes past her booth towards his own station. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this wig into a helmet?"

"It's true Gemma." Schuyler welcomes herself into Gemma's quarters. Tig knows not to taunt the viper and opts to trail after the impressionist. "I was there. Was like watching him stuff a cat into a pillow case. The whole scene was not pretty."

"I thought you were going to be on my side. You're meant to keep the club punctual." Gemma's greeting to the younger woman is her hand pointing at a box of plastic covered ticket spindles on the ground behind herself.

Schuyler unwraps one and places it on the counter at Gemma's elbow. "You know how they are at that age."

"Forgetful and hard of hearing?" Gemma passes a woman a hand full of tickets across the counter.

"Damn." Schuyler laughs and wonders if Gemma has her husband in mind. "I was going to say mouthy and rebellious. Most I can promise you is 'present and intact' on any given day." Schuyler perches on a stool beside the matriarch. "I thought maybe those groceries you bought for Opie's wife were perhaps a onetime occurrence, but here you are with this fundraiser."

"I'm very charitable," Gemma says forcibly. "Can't imagine where you would get a different idea."

"No kidding. Asking the club to let Kyle come knowing his past. That's real charity. I guess I should have known better though. I haven't met a family member whose as involved with the club as you are. At least where Charming is concerned. You're giving my mother a run for her money."

"Was that a compliment?" A corner of Gemma's mouth quirks upwards slyly. "Does this make us girlfriends?"

"Sure, or at least I can say I figured out where you're coming from. It's a good place."

Schuyler gets her bearings on where her brothers are. She spots Opie walking behind his children. Jackson is no longer with them and they are seeking one of the bounce house. When they reach it, Donna appears from behind Opie's taller frame and she crouches to speak to her children. Schuyler nods in the direction of the family. "You know Donna showed up?"

Gemma's glance is fleeting, more focused on her task. She hands another bundle of tickets to a paying customer. "Good for her. Maybe she's turning a corner and we'll see more of her. I extended an invitation to my dinner – to no avail. The club needs as much support as it can get. Especially when it comes to family."

Upon mentioning family, Gemma drops her tickets and corners Schuyler. "Jackson told me what happened in Nevada. You were ambushed and you took a bullet for this club."

Schuyler tsks amusedly at Gemma's remark. Unbeknownst to Gemma, she has simultaneously created and referenced an inside joke. Jackson has put Schuyler in a compromising position by keeping information regarding her from his mother. Regardless if he was saving Schuyler's ass in the process.

"Nothing so dramatic went down. If I were shot you would have heard about it from me. I'd have raised hell. Those losers who went with me to Indian Hills would be doing my laundry as we speak. But, that doesn't mean I wouldn't take a bullet for them."

"As long as I know where it is you're coming from." Gemma grants Schuyler the privilege of seeing her genuine smile. It is subtle and calm before her naturally gorgeous face relaxes into a scowl and she faces the counter again.

"Was that a compliment?" Despite her attempts to belittle the senior woman's words, Schuyler appreciates Gemma's gesture of essentially allowing her inside the inner circle. Evidently Gemma has been waiting some time for Schuyler to pass her own unspoken test for admittance.

On the border between the parking lot and the field, Schuyler locates Jackson. He is speaking very pointedly at a blond man who Schuyler does not recognize. Jackson pushes said man against a wall leading her to understand this man is most likely Kyle.

Gemma spots her son's antics and her scowl gains a new purpose. "This isn't the place Jax," she mutely shouts under her breath.

As if Jackson received her message over the great distance, Jackson chooses the same instant to search out Gemma in her booth. When he spots her glare meant for him he drop his hands from where they had been fisted into the man's hoodie. He leaves Kyle with a final threat and stomps off.

"Allow me to assist him in seeing the error of his ways," Schuyler offers. She slaps the counter top on her way up from her stool and exits the booth through a pass through.

Schuyler shortly catches up with Jackson. "I see you've reunited with an old flame."

"Dude is such an asshole," Jackson informs her almost eager to have someone to rant to. "Bringing up the past. Spouting off about some scheme to get money for the club. Same bullshit that got the club in trouble when he was Patched. Trying to get into my head."

"I think he succeeded. That's the kind of behavior I expect from Tig or Juice simply because they don't know any better."

Jackson gives her an incredulous look. "I don't want you checking in with Gemma anymore."

"Why? Sounds too much like a lecture you'd hear from her after I do?"

Opie gives their heedless wandering a destination when he waves them over from the perimeter. He leads them around one of the inflatables where he has set up a table holding boxes of fireworks. Beyond his set up is where the school property ends, and a field extends for another quarter of a mile.

"Firework detail," Schuyler engages with him. "Are you working on your grand finale?"

Opie hovers his hand over some boxes before plunging into one. From within he pulls out a massive bottle rocket the size of a two liter and places it in her hand.

"Woah! You're going to need a fire truck when this goes off."

Opie opens an ice chest underneath his work table and pulls out three glass beer bottles. He proceeds to pass them out on his way to collapse in a low sitting lawn chair. He has it facing the center of the field where he can easily keep an eye on his children and the crowd at large.

Schuyler trades the rocket for the drink and leans her back on the table to Opie's right. She uses the drink more as a prop to hold than a beverage to consume. Opie and Jackson open theirs in tandem and tap the necks together. Jackson sits down on the wall of a flower bed beside Opie.

"Kids seem to be enjoying themselves," Schuyler tries again.

"Yep."

"Where's Donna land with this?" Schuyler wavers when she notices Opie isn't wearing his kutte. She is smart enough to connect the facts together. This is the first time she has seen Opie outside the clubhouse, and he chose not to represent the club despite his attendance at the fundraiser being a sign of his support for it. She realizes how far he has slipped from the club he once was and clearly longs to be engrossed in again. "You two work through anything?"

Opie smiles timidly through his beard. His apprehensive nature is a stark contrast to his lumbering figure. "The club is the one thing I've wanted to be part of. Ever since I went here —," Opie gestures to the school, "— this is the first thing I can remember going after. Donna never really got that."

He takes a swig from his beer. "Me going inside, and coming out again, it jus' makes it harder on her. I begged her for a divorce for years. But she stayed. For the life of me I can't figure out why."

Schuyler wants to be encouraging. "She had a family worth fighting for."

Opie shakes his head despairingly. "It's not that. She feels trapped by the club. Always has." He glances between the two members and tugs his beanie more securely into place. "Her, the kids, work, me. Nothing gels anymore and I've got no way to get ahead of it. Don't see a way of bringing them together. I'll tell ya, I'm having a real hard time with it."

Jackson sets his beer in the grass. "I got no answers. I wish like hell I did. Ever since Abel was born it's like a dam has burst. I've got no way to plug the leak."

Schuyler's eyes shine reassuringly. "And no way to out run the tide?"

"Yeah. Feels like that." Jackson admires Schuyler's ability to put what he is thinking into words. He always comes away from her feeling recharged as opposed to how he has felt coming away from exchanges with his mother since his son's pre-mature delivery.

"I'm so used to things moving a hundred miles an hour, I've forgotten what it's like to stop and take a breath."

Schuyler discards the unopened bottle and pushes against the table she is leaning on. She goes to stand in between her brothers. "Have a look at this."

On the left hip of Schuyler's vest is a patch with the dimensions of a postage stamp. It contains a purple stitched number two with a pound side in one corner.

Jackson asks, "What is that, a one percenters-type of thing?"

"Hell, I wish it were that cool. It stands for Second Generation. The boys I came up with all have one. Our fathers were the club's first generation and when we Patched this was our brilliant idea of a contribution."

Schuyler runs her thumb over the stitching while making her way back to sit atop the table. "We're each color-coded. This flash connects me to my brothers back home as much as the Reaper connects me to you. It reminds me why I'm here." Schuyler spots Opie's kids, a boy, and a girl, playing ring toss out on the field. At the moment, their mother isn't hovering directly over them and they can enjoy the game. "My godson, your kid, and Abel. They'll be third gen, if you want it to go down that way. You can't force a kid into it, but you can give them the tools to figure out what it is they want. Same way we did."

Schuyler faces her brothers again. "You want something to work, you make it work. It's about striking a balance. Give Donna some time to adjust to you being out. I'm sure she'll come around."

Instead of watching his children at play Opie overlooks them to the egg toss. His eyes are glued on Kyle who is in the middle of a game with his own daughter. Opie changes subjects out of necessity. "I wanted him to be a miserable piece of shit without SAMCRO. Thought if he had it worse off than me it would help set me right. Guess you're saying I've got to do that on my own."

"Like everything else, man."

"You think he's happy?"

Schuyler and Jackson follow Opie's line of sight. Kyle catches the egg in such a way to cause it to break and splatter on his shoulder. His daughter runs up to him and he picks her up gleefully, completely unaware of the eyes watching him.  
Jackson responds. "I don't know."

They observe Kyle's movements as he lowers the girl to the ground. A woman his junior walks up behind him to assist in removing his stained hoodie. The action causes his shirt to rise up his back and reveal the ink he bares there. Letters spell 'California' on his skin. It's the same tattoo both Jackson and Opie share on their backs. Kyle is bearing club ink.

Jackson's brows knit together. Opie's tone is flat. "He still has that tat."

Either of the blonds first thought is to confront the outcast who is in severe violation of a club bylaw and they make moves to get up from their seats. Opie's claim prevents them. "This is me."

Schuyler watches Opie follow Kyle off the field through a door of the school building. She shakes her head to symbolically shake off her gut reaction to having seen the intact ink on the man who has been blacklisted. "See, he took it somewhere private. The way you're supposed to handle it. Op's goin' to need an ice pack or two after that chat."

"Yeah. I better go make sure he saves enough meat on the bones for what comes next." Jackson waits a beat then saunters after Opie. When he reaches the building, he looks in through a window into the school gymnasium and leans casually on the door  
preventing anyone from entering.

Schuyler has half a mind to rejoin Gemma at her stand while her brothers' sort out their affairs. She starts walking with the booth in mind when a female voice stalls her progress.

"Hey you." A brunette shorter than Schuyler turns her head in the female biker's direction yet makes no move to near her. Donna is attentively watching over her children and, though she initiated the conference, she expects Schuyler to approach her. Considering Donna is her brother's wife Schuyler feels an obligation to comply.

Donna speaks while Schuyler backtracks to stand beside her. "I saw you talking to Gemma a couple of weeks ago. Are you two close?"

Schuyler's tone is civil. "I'm as close to my President's Oldlady as I need to be. I'm Sky by the way. Can I help you with something?"

"Sorry." Schuyler gets the impression the woman makes a habit of apologizing where there is no need to. "I'm Donna. Sorry we have to meet like this. I don't really know why I stopped you. It's been hard on my family the last few years. Money troubles, very original."

Donna smiles politely through the pain in her eyes. "I found myself wondering if your momma was as worried about you being here as I am about my kids. And their daddy."

Schuyler turns leery. "It's been a long time since my mom has had to worry about my whereabouts. But if your family has been going through it, that means the club has been going through it. Whatever it is, it's not a burden you've got to carry alone. I don't know Gemma too well, but I know she feels quite the same way. All you've got to do is reach out and ask."

Donna snaps back. "The holy mother has already given me the club is the glue speech."

"Woah. I knew things with you and SAMCRO were tense." Schuyler monitors her posture. She remains passive and open, never wanting to appear hostile towards the struggling mother. The last thing she wants is to belittle the woman's feelings or cause a scene. "In case no one has told you: your level of involvement with the clubs ends where you want it to. If you don't want to have anything to do with your husband's extracurricular activities, that's totally up to you."

"Actually no. Everyone looks at me like I'm the devil when I say anything to go against the club." Donna's eyes follow her children protectively. She crosses her arms to communicate she is more closed off than Schuyler. "Treats me like I'm the obstacle Op has to overcome any time he'd rather be off gallivanting with them."

Schuyler brooches the topic as delicately as she feels she can without lying to the woman. "Look, this probably isn't my place since I haven't been around too long, but I've seen how Opie has been these last few weeks. This one-foot in, one-foot out schtick. It's going to get him and people he cares about hurt. Or worse."

"What if I want him out? It's possible, isn't it? Jax and Op, they told me the other guy got out. What's his name?" Donna looks over her shoulders to find Kyle. Her face drops when she is unable to as if her one opportunity for an escape route has been dashed.

Schuyler is reminded of her distaste towards the outcast. "Kyle was kicked out. There's a significant difference."

Donna rotates ninety degrees. Her expression curious. "What did he do to get kicked out?"

Schuyler raises an eyebrow. Impressed with the woman's tact more than anything. "Are you in the business of sabotage? Besides, it isn't my place to say how. That's a conversation you should have with your husband." Schuyler eyes the Oldlady. "That is, if that's how you want things to be between the two of you."

Donna sighs exasperatedly. "I'm so sick of having this conversation! I want things to be like they were. Before Opie went to jail for a motor cycle club. I want his family to be his priority again."

"His family is his priority," Schuyler insists. Her voice carries a measure of honesty. Her instinct is to defend her sibling. "Op is trying his best to please everybody. You have got to understand, he's never going to turn his back on his brothers. He did the time, and maybe it changed him, but it's what we do. Now he's back and you've got to give him the room to settle."

"How can you ask me to do that? You don't know anything about our relationship."

"I've seen it. Relationships are never simple. Add the club into the mix, start to feel like you're competing for his attention, and you're heading for a disaster."

Schuyler subconsciously pops her thumbs and pointer fingers on her hands hanging limp by her sides. "It's great that you are here today. Truly, it is. You need to learn how to live beside the club. Figure out how much information you want in on. Because if you don't, and soon, you are going to end up putting him in a position where he has to make a choice everyone around him is going to feel."

"Are you saying my husband might choose to leave me and his kids behind?" Donna sounds desperate. "I don't understand why he can't give up a goddamn vest to help his family who needs him."

Schuyler holds nothing but sympathy for the other woman. "He's like me, Donna. It's all we've ever known. It's ingrained in us."

Donna looks skeptical. "You don't have a family, do you? Children. Tends to change one's perspective on things."

Schuyler cannot prevent herself from taking offense. "The boys in this club are like my children. I have a hand in culling them. Usually solo. Why can't you see you're among friends?"

Donna shifts away from Schuyler feeling aggravated. Schuyler tries a new angle. "Whether you like it or not, we are family. No one on the outside is going to understand what it is you're going through. And you would be surprised by what some of these guys would do for the kutte. I'd hate to see you stretch Opie too thin. He might come to a decision you don't like."

"Opie's not like them!" Donna raises her voice. She swivels her head to offer an apologetic smile to anyone within earshot.

"Then why are you so scared of losing him?" The question stops Donna cold. She focuses on her children unable to carry on the conversation. Thankfully, a phone chimes. Schuyler's prepay receives a text. She gazes over Donna's head towards Jackson who is motioning for her to join him. "Think about what I said Donna. Don't make Opie choose between two families. He can't get through the week without you."

Schuyler sidesteps Donna to meet Jackson at the gym doors. "You ready to do this?"

Jackson opens the door for her. "After you, sister."

The duo discover Opie and Kyle in the boys locker room and by their state it is clear they had a falling out. Kyle has mostly righted himself. The bulk of his damages seems to be a cut above an eye and a broken nose. Opie's shirt is off, and his back is to the door the blonds entered through showing off his back piece without regard. The black, pristine ink gleaming from perspiration. When he turns, he reveals his lip is split and his own blood has soaked into his beard. He dabs the cut with a towel.

"I see you two have been talking," Jackson recognizes.

"You can say that." Opie throws his shirt over his head. His arms follow when putting it on. "Had something to get off my chest."

Schuyler stands with her feet shoulder width apart and pins her shoulders back adding depth to her form. "Good. All that's left is to get down to business."

Kyle ogles her. His approaches from a place of insecurity. "They lettin' you play dress up?"

Schuyler designates herself the role of distraction. "Is my presence so outrageous to you?"

Kyle wipes under his nose where blood has dried on his skin. "Guess not. When I was in Charming they weren't letting such pretty faces Patch in." His eyes are not on her face. "Be a shame to see you end up like me."  
Opie clenches his teeth at the man's veiled threat against his sister.

Schuyler's intentionally chosen words prevent him from lashing out unproductively. "Everyone's capable of change. Isn't that right Op? Think there's hope for this guy?"

The towering giant straightens his beanie to hide his ears, heating up, and he follows her train of thought. "Think so. New truck, nice piece of ass. You did alright by yourself."

"Yeah I guess." Kyle gives a scornful sigh. He crosses the locker room with bowed legs putting distance between himself and the unit who stand opposed to him. He eases onto a bench while speaking. "I miss it man. I miss it all." He looks regretfully between the Patches. His eyes scan Schuyler jealously unaware of how deep his disdain for her runs. "I miss the respect that came my way when I had that kutte on. The authority that came with it. I used to be part of something. These days, I'm just like every other shithead."

Jackson starts to corral Kyle's thoughts. "You started telling me something earlier. Stolen parts. Club might be interested in hearing your offer."

"Dude, I scoped it out and its real solid. I'd like to bring it to the club. Spread the wreath around." Kyle's voice rises in tempo and pitch, but he isn't able to bring himself to smile. Whether his frown comes from his guilt or a fear of being tossed aside for a second time, the members do not care to deduce. "My way of saying, 'sorry'."

Opie is surprised by the news but knows to trust Jackson's intentions. His attitude shifts to be ever so slightly more welcoming to the man he clearly despises. "We have to run it by Clay first."

"Yeah?" Kyle either doesn't recognize or chooses to ignore the façade. He begins to hope.

Schuyler agrees and her smile pulls Kyle further into the charade, making him believe there is a chance for him to be redeemed in the eyes of the Redwood charter. "Sure, why not. We could use the assist."

Jackson nods to her point. "That's right. It's kind of a complicated time for us. We should probably do it tonight. While you're in town."

"Yeah sounds good." Kyle stands to join the members.

Schuyler questions him. "Wait, ain't you suppose to stay to watch your kid's band?"

"Hey it's cool. I can hear him play some other time." Kyle preemptively jumps the gun.

Opie and Jackson, being fathers, share a telling look against Kyle's character. Kyle looks the other way in favor of stepping into the lone female's personal space. "Besides, I'd like to hear more about how you slipped under these guys' radar. Wound up playing on the All-star boys' team."

Schuyler relaxes her shoulders. She peers up through her eye lashes at the traitor. She whispers flirtatiously, though it makes no difference as to who hears her words. "It involved a quick wit and sharp tongue. Stick with me, stud, and you might get a chance to experience it for yourself." She leads the cluster out of the high school chatting neighborly with Kyle. He is close enough for her to feel his breath over her shoulder as they walk together.

Outside, they run into Tig and Bobby who have been actively combing the grounds for them. Bobby grows suspicious when he spots Kyle and asks, "Are we okay here?"

Kyle has the sense to quit speaking and he lowers his gaze. Jackson vouches for him. "All good here. What's up?"

Tig repeats the message he was given. "Gotta go. Chow Mein is ready."

"Now?" Jackson receives confirmation and directs Opie on what to do with Kyle for the time being. "I'll catch you guys back at the clubhouse. We'll iron out the details later."

Before dispersing, Kyle leans over Schuyler's shoulder one last time. "Am I going to see you there?"

Tig is quick with his wise crack. "Get in line, man. Whole town of Charming is ahead of you."

Schuyler's smile is more gracious when presenting it to Tig. "SA, always so serious." Tig's comment unintentionally makes it easier for Schuyler to engage with Kyle and she gives him a once over. "He never lets me have any sort of fun."

Kyle puffs his chest out. "Yeah, I remember how Tiggy could get." The inflection of Kyle's voice makes the use of man's nickname sound like a personal insult. He steps around Schuyler in a semi-circle while locking her in his gaze. "I'ma plan on seeing you later." His words, having been presented like a direct order, do not go unnoticed. He stalks off with Opie.

Tig sneers after the outcast, noticeably a little more riled than the rest. "Who the fuck does he think he is trying to piss on Charming ground?"

Bobby asks, cautiously, "You're planning on leaving them alone together?"

Jackson catches Bobby's shoulder, leading his group in the opposite direction heading towards the field exit. "We'll tell you on the way."

Schuyler starts walking in pace beside Tig and absentmindedly throws him a compliment. "Good news is you were right on the money."

Tig looks affronted by the comment because it came from Schuyler. "I was?"

The group maneuvers their way through the crowd. Most bodies part like the Red Sea to clear a path for the MC. The one obstacle delaying the group's otherwise quick pace is within Jackson's periphery. He is gazing at a food stand under operation by the police department. Hale and Unser are in their uniforms engaging with community members, but Jackson's focus is on the passerby whom he encountered at the hospital. The strange man lacks any sort of uniform, yet he is wearing an apron and grilling hot dogs beside the local policemen. His gaze is magnetized towards the club's path. His eyes are trained on Jackson.

Tig nearly tramples over Jackson's heels. "Jax, whose that guy over there? Are you looking at him?"

Everyone's attention is deflected to the PD's charity booth making them equally surprised by Gemma's sudden appearance in front of them. Gemma catches Jackson by his shoulders to gain his attention.

Fuming, Gemma berates her child. "You tell Clay I'm pissed off. Bad enough his sorry ass isn't here. Now you're leaving me to schlep raffle tickets and popcorn the rest of the day?"

"Sorry mother," Tig mutters apologetically. For an instant, he looks like a kicked dog behind his shades.

She hisses at Tig. "Would it have killed you to buy me an hour?"

Jackson's attention will not be deterred. "Who's that guy hanging with the cops?"

Gemma looks around. "Unser told me that's your ATF guy."

Jackson defers to Schuyler. "That guy was at the hospital yesterday watching us with Abel."

Schuyler confirms his suspicion. "I owe you a fiver."

Gemma curses under her breath. Tig's response is more tactical. "That's dangerous shit, brother."

Jackson requests a favor from his mother while mean mugging the ATF agent from across the field. "You keep an eye on him. If he tries to follow us out of here or leaves at any point, you give me a call."

Gemma asks stoically, "burner?"

"Yeah." Jackson leads his group away from the high school.

Gemma is left with a pit opening in her stomach.

An hour later, the group has reconnected with Clay. They have stashed their bikes somewhere secluded and left their kuttes behind to travel together in the nondescript van. Tig is driving with Clay riding shotgun. The benches have been lowered allowing Schuyler to sit beside Jackson and across from Bobby who is halfheartedly keeping an eye on a bald man whose arms have been duct taped together against his request.

Tig's grip tightens on the steering wheel once he is filled in about Kyle. "Stupid prick."

Clay looks into the rearview mirror. "You guys know what this means. When we're picking up the cash, I want you to phone Chibs. Make sure the garage gets locked down on time. No one on the lot after closing. And the prospect needs to stick around."

"Yeah alright."

"There's more," Jackson informs. "At the fundraiser. We got a look at the ATF guy whose been looking into us. Same guy who was at the hospital when I was with Abel."

Clay responds flippantly. "More bad news. Blue Beemer parked outside the clubhouse. Same as that watched us leave the prison yesterday. That's why I had to move this up."

"Are you sure this is wise?" The bound man speaks up. His nerves mount the closer the van draws to the restaurant. His speech is flippant, rushed. "The diner's gonna be packed. What's to stop them from calling the cops? Trespassing, vandalism, et cetera."

Jackson answers. "I'm more worried they'll call the Boss."

"Not possible. None of them have direct contact with Lin," the bookkeeper relays. He attempts to further explain with a gesture of his hands. He is stopped by the duct tape. He raises his bound hands up to Jackson's face in an exaggerated demonstration. He asks pitifully, "Is this really necessary?"

The van erupts in unison. "Yes!"

Schuyler was under the impression the bookie had an understanding with the club. She asks a clarifying question. "Why's that? Are you a pickpocket, too?"

Clay turns in his seat. "Thought we'd spare you from having to watch him perform his self-examination routine."

Schuyler looks confusedly between Clay and Chuckie. She wants to give the stranger the benefit of the doubt and takes a shot in the dark expecting a joke in response. "Classic case of CMD?"

Chuckie looks at Schuyler properly since having been shoved into the van with her and it's like she transforms into gold before his eyes. "Yes, I told these guys it was a real medical condition, but no one believed me! I couldn't get the right meds in Stockton, so it's a little out of hand."

Schuyler's eyes widen exaggeratedly. "No pun intended, right? You should find a doctor when you get hold of your cut. Get back to taking care of yourself properly."

Chuckie's eyes widen like a puppy presented with a steak. "Thank you kindly. That's very considerate of you. Well, I haven't been shown kindness since before I –"

"Calm down," Schuyler interrupts his attempts to grovel. "Don't go imprinting on me until we have the cash in hand."

"I accept that." Chuckie's eyes remain transfixed on Schuyler's face.

Tig pulls the van into an average looking restaurant parking lot during the dinner rush. This means there will be plenty of witnesses inside but on the flip side those who are dining will take up much of the business' attention and allow the MC to handle their business.

Jackson asks, "You sure this is the place?"

Chuckie nods. "I did the books out of the back office. Restaurants are how they wash the money. I guess you want to go in through the front door. Again, I'm not sure this is wise –"

"Shut up!" Bobby grabs Chuckie by the scruff of his coat collar and cuts his hands free. "Your time to shine, puppet master."

Everyone piles out of the van. Clay leaves Tig with a word of warning. "Our friends in the Beemer shouldn't be far behind."

"We'll be ready."

Chuckie leads a portion of the group into the restaurant. He's picking the tape off of his skin when a middle-aged Chinese woman in business casual dress confronts him. With an authentic accent, she scolds him. "Masturbator! You are not welcome in my restaurant."

Chuckie hangs his head. "I accept that." To give weight to the woman's words, he sticks his hand down his pants.

"Get out immediately!"

"Where," Clay demands bringing up the rear.

"Through here." Chuckie leads the group into the kitchen with the attendant chasing after them. Cooks scatter from their posts making way for the intrusion. Chuckie uses his free hand to point at a patch in the ceiling. "Ceiling above the stove. That square of new plaster."

Jackson nods for Schuyler to climb the steel cabinet. "Go on. You weigh less."

Schuyler blows a raspberry. "I might be more limber than you." She uses Jackson's shoulder for balance to step up onto the metal cooking station. She feels around the ceiling. She finds a weak point where she can create an indent in the ceiling with her hand, but it will not break easily. "Hand me something heavy." She opens her hand and a meat tenderizer winds up in her palm.

When she creates a hole big enough to stick her arms through, she receives new instructions. "Down the side vent, just there," Chuckie sheepishly directs her.

"Chuckie, you're making me blush." She gives him a warning while rooting around the vent for the prize.

Chuckie removes his hand from his pants and presents both as a sign of apology to the woman. "There was an exhaust vent up there. I hid the bag before they plastered over it." He looks proud of his ingenuity.

On her tiptoes, Schuyler retrieves a brown duffle bag. She drops it on the oven beside her. She uses Jackson's shoulder to hop down in time to see Clay unzip the bag.

"Holy shit." Clay rifles through the bundles of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills.

"I told you I had it."

"I accept that," Clay mocks Chuckie's unique word choice back to him.

All the while the restaurant owner has been shouting at the group in a mixture of languages to leave her establishment and threatening to call the police. Clay picks up the open bag and passes the woman a bundle of cash as a bribe. "Shut up!"

The woman flicks through the wad and her mood changes. As they leave, she walks them out, shouting, "You come back any time!"

In the parking lot, Tig is on high alert. "Our friends in the Beemer are here. And another interested party has been taking laps in a silver Caddy."

Jackson catches a glimpse of the vehicles and sighs. "Shit is on."

Clay passes the van keys to Jackson. "Let's move. Jax drives."

Tig becomes a human shield. He is the last to enter the van and physically protects Chuckie by blocking his stockier body from the nearest window with his own form. Schuyler claims shotgun and doesn't bother with her seatbelt. She kicks her feet onto the dashboard and lowers her head below the windshield. Everyone anchors themselves and ducks their heads below the fragile glass windows.

Jackson powers up the engine and makes a mad dash for nearest parking lot exit. The blue Beemer beats him to the punch when it jumps onto the curb. It instantly transforms itself into a barricade. Jackson changes gears, turning a one-eighty. There is a second exit which he tries to escape through at equal velocity. The second silver vehicle appears preventing his successful getaway.

"Sunday would have been so much better!" Chuckie insists. He has a death grip on the back of Schuyler's seat, drawing nearer to her in his search for a sense of security. Tig isn't making it easy considering he is pushing Chuckie's head down below the windows in anticipation of an escalation.

"Shit! Hold on!" Jackson's last-ditch effort is extreme. He changes the direction the van is facing a second time hoping to catch the blue car off guard. He drives straight for the Beemer causing those inside to scatter before the van makes an impact to the smaller car. The van bounces off the Beemer unable to clear the exit. "Well that didn't work."

The men who left their vehicle draw their guns and begin firing into the van's bullet proof windshield. Jackson blindly reverses the van at full speed jostling the occupants violently with his lack of coordination or care. Clay tumbles to the floor along with the bag which spills its contents.

Jackson slams on the breaks in his rush to crouch below the steering wheel. "What's the plan here, Clay?!"

Guns shoot off for several more seconds and stop eerily as the men who had been firing communicate between themselves in fluid Chinese. A single sentence registers in English amongst the commotion. "All we want is the bag!"

Clay refiles through the scattered contents as he tries to replace them and his hand lands on something he hadn't expected to find. A hard, metal bar. "Plates."

"Give us the bag and you can go!" The men outside grow increasingly impatient.

"These are plates for a twenty," Clay realizes.

Bobby reaches into the partially filled bag and retrieves a second plate identical to the first. "Here's the other one."

"This shit's counterfeit?" Jackson demands of Chuckie.

"It's not shit," the bookie tries to defend. "It's really good. These bills will pass anywhere."

"Goddamn it!" Clay gets to his knees solely to punch Chuckie in the jaw. The bookkeeper crumples to the floor between Jackson and Schuyler's seats.

"This is your last chance," a member of the Chinese mob warns.

"Hold up!" Clay opens the side door of the van and jumps out with the duffle bag. "Easy. I think we can make a deal." He presents the bag around the door that shields him as an offering. "I want to talk to Lin." A new man in business attire reveals himself by stepping out of one of the cars. He meets with Clay to discuss their options.

While negotiations take place outside, Schuyler reaches down and clasps Chuckie's shoulder aggressively. "This is your meal ticket bud. Was there ever any real skim?"

"No," Chuckie admits disheartened. Bobby lashes out by kicking his leg. Tig grabs Chuckie up by his overcoat. "I'm sorry! I needed protection and figured you guys could spend the bills anyway."

"Hey Chuck!" The words penetrate the van. Clay is waving for the man to be brought out as a bargaining chip.

With her hand on his person guarding him, it is up to Schuyler to make the call. She releases him and nods her consent for him to be taken away.

Chuckie retracts violently from her grasp, understanding the ramifications of her silent order. "This was not our deal!"

Tig and Bobby gather the flailing man between them and deliver him along with the second plate to Lin's car.

Schuyler sits up in her seat and buckles her seatbelt. Jackson, in turn, rights himself and rests a heavy arm on the steering wheel. They watch somberly as the bags be exchanged between the groups and Chuckie is placed into Lin's vehicle. The last either hears from the frantic man is his desperate pleas. "I do not accept this!"

Clay sits down on the van's bench and Schuyler asks, for her own conscious, "How much did Lin give ya?"

"Sixty thousand," Clay informs wearily. "Not as much as we had hoped for."

"Better than to be without." Bobby fishes for a positive spin on the situation.

"Next time," Schuyler assures. "We'll score big next time."

The sun nears the horizon. The MC's Stockton contact may not have provided the resource they expected him to, but nevertheless the Sons walked away with cash in hand. One step closer to solving a perpetual problem.

For the time being, another problem must take precedent. One currently occupying space within SAMCRO's dominion. The garage closed on time and unauthorized personal were sent home in order for such a matter to be promptly dealt with.

Half-Sack is playing pool against his sponsor. Opie and Kyle are bantering, one clearly more dryly than the other, along beside them. The members have done what they could to entertain the ostracized individual without letting on the purpose for his allowed visit. Their tactic has primarily involved drowning him in booze.

The bar's stock has been routinely set in front of Kyle and the man hasn't noticed how much more he has consumed compared to those who gifted the alcohol to him. Clay, however, does take notice when he steps into his establishment and decides to drag out his interrogation, believing Kyle could benefit from the sedative.

Clay maneuvers his way around the bar and grabs a beer from the fridge. "So, I hear you've got an offer I can't refuse."

Kyle approaches the bar with his hand extended. "Clay, it's good to see you, man." His smile is painful, caused by his fresh bruising.

Clay pops the top on his drink and dramatically tosses it away in refusal to take the traitor's hand. Bidding for time. "Better be fan-fucking-tasting for you to risk your balls a second time coming back to Charming."

Kyle makes a recalculation, believing his best chance of weaseling his way back into Clay's good graces will be to use words and dollar signs. "Something like that."

With the tense discussion transpiring, Half-Sack inquiries after the lesser occupied members. "How'd things go down with the Chinese?"

This was the wrong question to ask. Rather, he asked the question at an inappropriate time. As demonstrated by Chibs who, wrapping an arm around the Prospect's shoulders, knocks the wind out of him by shoving a pool cue into the boy's sternum.

Jackson shakes his head at Half-Sack's expense and answers vaguely. "Not too good."

"Jus' breathe through it lad." Chibs bends over the table. He shoots for a corner pocket and misses. He leads by example and camouflages his language in front of the outsider. "Where's our 'mutual friend' wandered off to?"

The Secretary shuffles past the game with the money bag in hand. "Twinkle fingers is out of our hair." He heads to the chapel where the club's vault is housed.

Schuyler, wanting to avoid Kyle until his time of reckoning, inserts herself into conversations starting with Chibs. She eyes the prospect who has gone over to slump against a wall and cradle his chest. "You could at least hint at what he did to deserve it. It would be the charitable thing to do."

Chibs wags his eyebrow. "Lesson sticks if he figures it out for himself."

Opie decides he has had all he can stand of being in Kyle's presence and makes up an excuse to leave. Unwilling, it would seem, to stick around to see the night play out. He has confidence the club will conduct itself accordingly. "I'd better get going. Sun will be down soon and, knowing your mom, if I'm not there she'll jimmy-rig the damn fireworks herself to blow up in my face."

Jackson supports Opie, recognizing his desire to make himself scarce. "I'm sure we're all on the Gemma shit list now."

Schuyler pretends to take offense. "Don't drag me down into your mess. I just got off that list!" She shares equally in Jackson's concern for Opie and trails them. They come to standstill in the narrow corridor leading towards the apartment rooms and the back exit where Jackson's words resonate between them.

"Hey Op. This thing that's about to go down. Is it going to sit right with you?"

The three juvenile members cram themselves into the hallway and overlook the scene. Chibs and Tig are around the billiards table taking turns riling up the prospect. Bobby has reappeared from the chapel and sat down beside Kyle with a drink in hand. Kyle thinks he has been successful in chatting up Clay, but the eyes observing him are informed of the truth.

"Yeah, it's what the club needs to strengthen its ranks. Is it sitting right with you? You know this one lands on your back."

Jackson looks regretful when speaking honestly. "I'm good."

Schuyler is intrigued by Opie's motives. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be here to see it get done? Put some ghosts to bed and all that."

Opie looks down at her squarely. "You saying you want to watch?"

Schuyler contemplates her answer. She settles on a joke. "It'll make me feel a hell of a lot better. But then again," she raises her voice in pitch mimicking a particular type of Californian, "that's my unique, personal experience."

Opie cracks a smile. Her words take the edge off of the stress he has felt being back in Kyle's presence. For that alone, he is grateful to her in this moment. "My not being here doesn't mean I don't want this. And everything it comes with."

Jackson nods his understanding. "We know bro."

Opie redirects their gazes. "I'd rather be dead than be that guy."

Kyle is handed yet another drink completely clueless as to what is to come.

Jackson shares Opie's sympathizes. "Yeah, me too."

Schuyler huffs a laugh. "At least we managed to figure that much out for ourselves today."

Jackson sends Opie on his way. "You should get going man. I can hear my mom screaming from here."

With Opie gone, Jackson joins the ever-expanding discussion centered on Kyle and Clay. Seeing the Vice President return brings Half-Sack into the conversation. The group packs in tight on either side of the bar, and conversation flows as easily as alcohol. One could almost forget a dark cloud is growing over Teller-Morrow. The one person exempt from sensing its existence is the man who will be most directly impacted by the cloud's formation.

Schuyler begins to follow her brother until her attention is drawn elsewhere. Across the bar, Chibs is sitting atop a dining table. His game of billiards having been cut short by the club's arrival. He is leaning over Tig who is sitting below him in a chair. They are off to the side away from the action and speaking in low tones. Schuyler witnesses Chibs nod determinedly. Then he abruptly hops off the table. He goes to the bar and comes to a rest at Bobby's side where he injects himself seamlessly.

Schuyler fills in for Chibs sitting across from Tig with a thoughtful expression. She speaks to him in an equally low tone to keep Kyle from overhearing her. Though he's plenty distracted by the hard liquor being set in front of him and the conversation he is holding with who once were good friends. "Did you catch Chibs up to speed? Does he know what to expect?"

"He doesn't need to be warned." Tig's gaze is unwavering from Kyle's form. The longer Tig observes the more his emotions become corrupted. His feelings are darkening, sprouting from a visceral place within him, and his face is sunken with age and experience. "He's seen more violence than most."

"How many of us can say otherwise?" Schuyler's focus is on those who are sitting around the man with a target on his back. She knows her brothers' welcoming faces are put on and she feels secure in her standing with the California charter. Her charter. There can no longer be any doubt on her part as not a single man is holding onto any they may have previously held for her. She is safe, and she truly feels safe, within their ranks. After weeks of earning each man's trust she finds herself able to say she is the one on the inside looking upon an outsider.

She promptly continues. "Is Clay going to enact the deed himself or are you volunteering as tribute?"

"This one's gonna be on me." Tig is overtly willing, yet he will garner no joy from the execution.

"Should I offer you a drink?" Schuyler realizes there isn't one in front of him and wonders how such a mistake could have been allowed.

"Never needed alcohol to steady my hands." Schuyler chuckles lightly at his frankness. "I'm surprised you aren't offering to do it. You've been gung-ho up to this point."

"This beef was before my time. More surprising to me that Opie isn't chomping at the bit to carry out the retaliation."

"'S not about retaliation. This is about respecting the club." Tig's acceptance of her, though Schuyler had considered the notion herself, is chilling. A violence lurks behind the compassion he holds for her. "And you're a part of it. Stay. Watch. But I wouldn't ask anyone to do it in my place." Schuyler has never considered Tig to be a soft-spoken man, and yet. "I want to. Opie not claiming it means he has more sense."

"He brings a different skill set to the table. Club needs his hesitance, the way it needs your ability to act on any decision we collectively arrive at."

Tig cocks his head. "No one has ever dressed up the things I do as a Noble act."

"It's a good thing. It's vital." Schuyler makes a clarifying comment. "I should have trusted your judgement before." Tig is visibly confused. "I should have trusted you when you voted in the minority yesterday."

"It's a fair bet to say I've been at this longer than you."

Schuyler's eyes brighten considerably. "Yeah, I'll bet it is. Might could have avoided this if the vote had gone different, but this sort of thing…"

Tig voices her thought. "Have to handle this problem at the root. Keep the disease from spreading."

"Hey Bobby!" Jackson shouts, effectively ending all conversations. "You get around to showing Kyle your Knucklehead?"

"Woah. Who got a Knucklehead?"

The question Jackson proposes is a ploy to lure Kyle into the garage. The visibly drunken man wobbles on his stool and inquires about the proposed motorcycle that does not exist.

Schuyler projects a calm energy about her. "It's show time."

She saunters up to Half-Sack while the rest of the group migrates towards the garage. Bobby leads them while making his best effort to continue bantering with Kyle. Clay brings up the rear, lighting a cigar, and he quietly admires Schuyler's foresight.

"Prospect. Hang back." She keeps the group a distance from herself. "Did anyone bother to clue you in on what's about to happen?" Her sultry voice is melodious. The young boy shakes his head. Afraid to say the wrong words, having already been corrected once. "You're about to learn another lesson. This one's not going to be very pretty, but hey –," she catches his shoulder and speaks lowly, "— whatever happens. You keep looking."

Kyle barges in through the unlocked office door. His point of entry since the overhead doors have been shut. He fancies himself the cock of the walk with his feathers sticking out in every direction. Unaware a portion of the garage has wittingly been made clear of clutter. "Where's the Knuckle?"

The Patches file inside where they circle the outcast. The same way a pride of lions would encircle their prey.

Kyle's confidence dwindles rapidly upon realizing there is no vintage bike. He spins on his heels and searches the faces glowering at him. "What is this?"

Jackson is opposite Kyle. His face set. He strains his voice to contain his volume. "Take your shirt off."

Kyle shrugs his shoulders nervously. A hand rising to itch at the area in question. "Jax, what's this about, man?"

"Take it off!" The words explode from Jackson's chest. Fists are balled at his sides.

"No, wait guys. Let me explain!"

Bobby and Chibs lunge forward to grab onto either of Kyle's arms. Struggling, they wrestle the shirt over the unyielding man's head. Tearing the fabric from his body they force Kyle's back towards the first and second for examination. The ink of the club patch is untampered with. As crisp as the day it was applied.

Kyle is ruefully released. He paces back and forth between members like a puck on an air hockey table. Spinning wildly, he grants every member a visual of his betrayal. "I know, I know! I'm supposed to black it out. I went a bunch of times, I mean." He rubs the back of his head actively coming up with excuses. Kyle feels no remorse for disrespecting the club. He's sorry for having been caught. "Every time I went to get on the table, I just…I just couldn't go through with it."

Clay's grave declaration brings Kyle around with a pleading look in his eyes. "Fire or knife?"

Kyle slouches. "Clay, man. I tried. You've got to believe me."

"Answer him!" Schuyler demands behind the outcast. She acknowledges the prospect beside her and motions for him to take a step back from the culprit. Half-Sack follows her order by perching on a massive metal toolbox left out underneath a work station. Understanding of the severity of the situation presented dawns on his young face.

Kyle begs the Vice President. "Jax, please. Please! Don't make me do this. Just give me a chance!"

Neither Clay nor Jackson falter. Kyle desperately searches for a single sympathetic expression and finds none. He wrings his hands and resorts to bargaining with the ceiling. In his own time, he answers in a throaty, defeated voice. "Fire."

"Alright." The verbalization comes from Tig who moves towards the back wall of the garage where a blow torch is set up on a work table.

Bodies mobilize around Kyle. Chibs and Bobby set to work wrapping links of metal chain around either side of a hydraulic lift machine. Their intent is to utilize the erect pole-like figures to hold Kyle's arms in place above his head during the excruciating procedure.

Jackson pitilessly hands Kyle a two-liter bottle of Ever-Clear hand picked from the bar. Kyle swipes it up furiously. He downs the liquid as if he blames the bottle. One, two, three gulps and Schuyler reaches around to steal the bottle out of his hand. She turns the glass cylinder upside down and empties the contents onto the traitor's back. She discards the bottle, so Kyle can be hoisted up from the ground by the restraints.

The display is primal, driven by a tribal instinct. The most noteworthy act of them all is the unique way in which Tig is conducting himself. The torch comes alive in his hand morphing into an extension of his being. He shuffles the metal tool between his hands and draws a figure eight in the air with its sharp flame. He is staring down the barrel of a gun. Drawing face to face with his victim who is being served up to him like an offering. At first glance, one might assume Tig is brazenly assure of himself.

Schuyler sees through him. Witnessing something she never expected to see from a man sitting right hand to the President. She catches a glimpse, a fleeting moment, where Tig takes a steadying breath and rolls the muscles throughout his entire body. Like he is removing himself from a daze. She realizes he is having to hype himself up. Convincing himself what he is about to go forth with is justified.

What Tig is experiencing is far removed from blind hatred or obediently following a half-baked order. Tig is orchestrating contained, measured violence for the sake of others who are unable to claim this proposed justice for themselves. It isn't Tig's desire to be ruthless. Quite the opposite. He is the only member present who is able to choose to be.

Schuyler is blindsided. She finds herself gaining a new insight into the man's character. A man who she had originally written off as yet another disconnected soldier. This new perception causes her to gain something she could almost label as more than causal respect for her officer.

The concept startles Schuyler, ripping her out of the club headspace and the disdain she feels for the traitor. She forces herself to look around to the other faces in the room in search for a viable diversion to redirect her attention to the matter at hand. Clay is leaning against a work station puffing on his cigar. She watches Bobby don his glasses over his eyes. Preparing himself for the coming heat. Jackson goes to stand directly behind Tig. Ensuring for himself that the prosecution is laid to rest. Everyone is prepared and steadfast in their convictions. Understanding this course of action must be carried out.

The one man who seems out of place in the room is Chibs. Once Kyle was secured, Chibs took it upon himself to stand where he could keep his eyes trained on Tig's face – neither Kyle's back nor his form. While anxiety runs high and eyes lock onto Tig's craftsmanship, Chibs' focus is on the executioner. His body is otherwise relaxed, but his eyebrows are knitted together in consideration. Not for what is to come or for what will follow. He looks as though he is ready to step in for Tig at a moment's notice. Those in the room have a certain obligation to act as a witness, but Chibs' appears as though he is willing to accept Tig's burden in his stead.

Schuyler cocks her head to one side. A curious thought manifests within her. Chibs acknowledging her with an expression suggesting he's been aware of her eyes on him the entire time is the final straw. Schuyler is careful to reframe from looking between either man. A less than plausible thought takes root and refuses to be weeded out. A thought so outlandish she has to tear her eyes away from Chibs. She finds herself looking for a more meaningful deterrent than simply gazing about the room mindlessly and she has no other choice but to narrow her focus onto the gruesome scene unfolding before her. After all, she is on the clock and has to set an example. Schuyler has to shelve the implausible scenario she presented herself with. One evolving to be less and less unlikely by the second.

In the center of the garage, Tig approaches the traitor. He levels the blow torch with the man's lower back at the start of the word 'California'. Kyle's body forms a crucifix posed above the garage floor. Arms splayed out, he is white knuckling the metal hardware and chains between his despairing fingers. Bracing himself on his toes, he is close to hyperventilating and sweating profusely before Tig can even begin making passes with the domineering tool.

In unison, eyes shift purposefully from Kyle's face to Tig's hands when the Sergeant first touches the flame to Kyle's skin. Tig moves in steady, defined strokes. Passing over the same stripe multiple times before ascending further up the excommunicated man's back. Allowing the skin to chare and thus blend in with the black ink. Tig's goal is to make the tattoo Kyle was deemed unworthy to bare disappear. The flame destroys the tattoo layer by layer of skin burning close to the bone.

The air fills with the scent of burning flesh and guttural screams which are renewed with every new square inch engulfed by the red-hot fire. Smoke rises in the air. Vital fluids being extracted from Kyle's body and evaporating into the atmosphere. Dead skin cells are washed onto the floor by a constant stream of smoldering blood, as warm as magma, which drains out of the growing wound.

Half-Sack tries to evade the carnage. The tortured soul crying out in pain. He ends up finding Schuyler, as opposed to shying away, knowing full well he is meant to look to the Patches any time he requires guidance. Ignorant to being observed, her face is relaxed, and she shows no fear or discomfort. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth meditatively. Across the room, she still has a calming effect that overrides Half-Sack's fight or flight instinct and he is able to steady his hands. He keeps from covering his eyes or running away like he did the night at the carnival. He refocuses his energy on making the woman whom he knows has been hell-bent on looking out for him proud and he can face the straining man. His eyes remain on the sizzling skin until Tig extinguishes the flame.

After a time, the man's screams die off. His body goes into shock and he hangs limply in his restraints no longer pulling the chains taut to resist the lapping of the flames at his now scorched skin.

Tig replaces the blow torch on its workbench. With the help of Chibs, Tig works to bring down the unconscious man from the lift to the floor. Bobby leaves the safety of the garage by opening one of the sliding doors with a pull chain. He reenters the civilian world with his shades firmly on his face despite it being pitch black outside. He mounts his bike without a word and takes off. Clay offers a command about where to dispose of Kyle, but his words fall upon deaf ears. Clay leaves, planning on going home to his wife and forgetting Kyle ever existed. Carrying on the same way he has for the last five years. Jackson's objective is much the same, after he approaches the prospect and asks him in a cold voice to get the garage prepared to be opened for business the following morning. Half-Sack stares hard at his Vice President. A lump in his throat which had formed when he entered the garage finally moves past his windpipe. He mouths an affirmative, reaching for a bucket.

By the time Chibs and Tig wrap Kyle in a tarp and load him into the van, Half-Sack has set to work moping the floor. Evidence of the club sanctioned punishment attempts to stain Teller-Morrow's shop floor – to no avail.

Schuyler rests a firm hand on Half-Sack's shoulder stopping the youngest member with the head of the mop soaking in sudsy water. "You've seen what's at stake here. That was some pretty serious adult shit, but you had to witness it."

Half-Sack twists the handle tightly between his hands. "I saw intense shit over in Iraq, too. But nothing I remember came close to this."

"Some days are easier to get through than others. Do you understand this was the necessary move?"

Half-Sack wants to understand. "How do you do it?"

"How do 'we' do it?" Schuyler's expression is consequential yet reassuring. "Prospecting is about figuring that out for yourself. We all went through it. Once you're in, you'll find your place. Do something worth calling a good deed, every single day. Find something you can go home to it. This club is more than a job, the bike. It's something you can't live without no matter how hard you try. If this is where you want to be than I know you'll find a way to handle the baggage that comes along with it."

Half-Sack picks up the mop and begins pushing the blood around haphazardly seeming to make no progress. "I don't know."

"Hey." Schuyler makes Half-Sack look her in the eyes. "I'm proud of you, brother. No matter how much time you've got left on the clock, you're one of us now. If you want it bad enough."

Whether she knows this or not, Schuyler is the first member to call Half-Sack by the term 'brother'. He is beholden to her. "Thanks sister."

She shoulders the boy and he stumbles into the bucket. "Don't push your luck. Still have to clean this shit up." She leaves him to complete the task in solitude. She intuitively knows the silence will do him good.

Schuyler walks out the open garage door. There are only so many people left to finish out the job and she finds them behind the garage. Chibs and Tig are standing at the back end of the van watching over Kyle. Presented with the two men's backs, standing side by side a little closer than the open space requires them to, Schuyler is reminded of the suspicions that arose within her inside the garage.

Kyle is unconscious and has no chance of surviving his inflicted injuries without medical assistance. The trio's task will be to bus him to the nearest hospital. The punishment was not a death sentence. Kyle is meant to live with his mistakes.

Tig hears her approach and throws Schuyler a set of car keys. "You drive." He sits on the bench on the driver's side, leaning over Kyle's unconscious form. Chibs sits opposite of Tig. They each look in different directions of the van. Their attempt to give each other space after experiencing such a weighted deed. They do the same for Schuyler by leaving the passenger seat empty.

Schuyler closes the double doors on them and goes to the driver's seat. The twenty-minute drive to the emergency room passes slowly in torturous silence. Schuyler drives up to a side entrance of the building and idles on the curb. Chibs and Tig bolt out the van and lay Kyle on the street flat on his chest left without any dignity. The tarp falls off Kyle's back, exposing the fiery red skin blistering and scabbing over the excruciating wounds.

As Schuyler pulls away before any medics can ID the vehicle, she sees a woman without scrubs run out from the waiting room and into the street. She pulls on the man in the road in a futile attempt to rose him. She's screaming for help. Schuyler repositions the rearview mirror and drives back to TM.

Chibs and Tig resettle on their chosen benches. When Schuyler looks into the rearview again, she is able to see Tig's profile behind her and can tell he is looking to Chibs despite being unable to see the other man herself. She wonders if he's already forgotten the man they left behind or if he's still reeling from his spectacular display of cruelty. She wonders if he needs to take a few more calming breathes to compose himself. Before the question forms within her she realizes the answer for herself.

For a moment, she forgets she is driving. Lost in her thoughts she is unguarded with her appearance. She must have been staring because it's Chibs' voice that breaks the monstrous silence of the van and informs her she had indeed been staring longingly at Tig in worry. "We should talk."

Schuyler can see Tig's eyes widen in bewilderment. He is unaware Schuyler had been observing him both during the ink burning and presently. He is unaware of Chibs and Schuyler's exchange in the garage and is unprepared for Chibs' declaration. It is after he returns Schuyler's gaze in the rearview that he understands. No matter how small the evolution may have been, something has fundamentally changed between the three of them.

Tig clenches his teeth and waits with bated breath for the reply from the woman he could have never expected but nevertheless has longed to hear. "Yeah. We should."

**Author's notes:**

There is a lot to unpack here. Many moving parts to keep in mind.

What is this secret plan or event Schuyler is putting together and invited Jackson to? (Hint, the answer will be revealed in Chapter 10!)

Schuyler has revealed a tradition thought to be exclusive to SAMTEX. The #2 Gen flash where the title of this chapter derives from. Is it possible she will extend this honorary flash to her same-age siblings? Speaking of siblings, Schuyler has made a connection with Opie. Their relationship, steaming from much the same place as Jackson and Schuyler's relationship steams from, will continue to bloom from this point forward.

We've met Schuyler's mother, Samantha, who - besides Edward - is the person who has shaped Schuyler the most throughout her upbringing. Though distance divides them, Schuyler is always acting to make her mother proud. For those who are curious, the "comedic news show" referenced is Real Time with Bill Maher. Schuyler's long term attraction to this particular man with his physicality and personality is extremely relevant. Do not sleep on it!

To further divulge trade secrets, I have been keeping track of the timeline of this story for you. Edward's passing happened in February of 2008. Chapter 8 takes place in June of 2008. It has not been very long at all for Schuyler since she lost her father and it was important to see her reflect on him in this chapter. It should come as no surprise that the discussion Schuyler had with Samantha led her to the place where she ends up in chapter 8 and where we will pick up in chapter 9.

Thank you so much for the continued support of this series. Especially if you take the time to read these little messages I put at the beginning and the end. I have a lot of information to communicate and never mind sharing more! I do hope this update can be a bright spot in these strange and trying times we are living in. Crazy to think I am posting so much more during such a hectic year. I am working diligently to come up with new angles in which to alter and spice up this series. They will become increasingly obvious as the series progresses. I will continue to keep you up-to-date with the direction I plan on taking this series as it becomes crystal clear to me. Comments and kudos and the like are always appreciated!

And until the next update, this has been Nevada!


	9. The Hook-Up

Chibs' gives Schuyler an address and instructions including which roads to take and where to park when she gets there. Schuyler wants to make a joke about how she has gone on runs requiring less stealth and vigilance on her part but is unable to. She understands the stakes surrounding this particular drive are much grander, even when compared to that of illegally crossing national borders. The three bikes set off in separate directions despite no tail being in pursuit of them. Mistakes cannot be afforded, and their choices are not founded upon lightly.

Schuyler is the last to arrive. She parks in the carport where she had been instructed and enters the house through a visually obstructed side entrance.

**Author's Notes:**

I cannot give a summary of this chapter without spoiling anything. However, I had to update with this chapter. I wasn't going to leave you hanging and I was already so excited to publish it! It's kind of a lot, and its an awful lot of talking, but I assure you it will save talking in the future. You will be rewarded for hanging in with me in Chapter 10 and onward. Just be prepared to suspend your disbelieve with this chapter a little.

To give some context, Schuyler has been in Charming (and known both Tig and Chibs) for 5 weeks total as of this chapter, and has been away from Texas for a total of 11 weeks.

Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for...…

A single light is on in the house over a small two-chair dining room table next to a leather sofa. Schuyler imagines herself walking into a hidden location to endure an interrogation. Quite frankly, she is.

"Don't everyone jump to greet me at once. Ain't anyone goin' to offer to show a girl around?" Schuyler's tone is condescending. The townhouse is cleaner than she expected it to be, but it is void of personality and smells like a cannabis field.

"You should sit," Tig states. "Sort through some things before this melee ensues." He is sitting in the seat closest to the kitchen. He rubs irritably at his facial hair and settles his hands firmly on his thighs. His fingers spread wide to match the spread of his legs. Failing on all fronts to feign confidence.

"You mean, before you reveal anything you can't possibly take back."

Behind Tig, and a few steps away, Chibs had been pacing so much he has practically created a trench in his floor boards in front of the kitchen walkway. Schuyler's voice stops him. His face and posture settle in equal measures of rigidity. His need for a poker face betrays how worried he is.

Schuyler wittingly chooses to sit in a chair where her back will be against a wall. Never mind it is the last chair at the illuminated table. She feels the weighted pressure of the men's eyes meeting her with full force. "So, how long have you two known you were polyamorous?"

"Come –"

"— the fuck –"

"— again?"

"Easy." Schuyler raises her hands above the table in surrender. Heat is rolling off their bodies from their pent-up anxiety. She considers they are less prepared for this discussion than they anticipated and decides it is important to make clear she is not a threat to either of their wellbeing. "I should have known better. No big words on the first date."

At the mention of 'date', Tig's ears comically, almost literally perk up in attention and the back of his neck warms. His eyes dart away from her and back again.

"Let's start at the beginning. How long has," she makes vague gestures between their forms, "this been goin' on?"

"Long enough."

Chibs, the more thoughtful of the two, makes his voice heard by giving a sincere reply. "About nine years. Seven, officially."

Schuyler extends her sympathy. An olive branch as much as it is a genuine attempt to cultivate a connection. "I can imagine how difficult those first two years were for you."

"No, you canna ever imagine that."

"I see." Schuyler understands she has no right to be offended. Yet, the mention of not being able to understand something because it happened in the past creates a massive concern for her. She refuses to get involved in anything, no matter how casual or severe, where she will be treated as an outsider. Again. She purposefully over steps a boundary of her own. "And who stopped putting in the effort, hmm? Surely one of you is presenting a problem only a new face can hope to solve."

"You listen here." Chibs' sensible and standoffish demeanor vanishes when he feels attacked in his own home. He has to plant his feet to keep from advancing and crowding the table. He knows his doing so would upset Tig and he had promised to speak with the woman before deciding on any one course of action. But he will not stand for Schuyler belittling his private life in any way.

"We've been fine as we are for damn near a decade. Never once 'ave we risked our relationship by telling someone or inviting them in. It wanna just Tiggy with all his faults for fancying you!"

Schuyler cuts him off. "Wait, so you're saying you 'fancy' me as well? You've proven tonight you certainly like the concept of me."

Chibs' face drops. His momentum ruined. "In so many words."

"You could add a few more of your own, you know."

Tig gathers the confidence to inject a joke. "You're the first broad Chibby's looked at in a hot minute. Got the old man wanting to court again."

"Really?" Schuyler bats her eyes like a feline catching first sight of their prey.

"What I'm saying is this," Chibs regains the reins. "We're equally willing. If you canna accept that fact, then you need to leave right fucking now!"

Chibs' stern, elevated voice chills Schuyler to the bone. Yet, instead of being appalled, she regards him much in the same way she regarded Tig in the garage. He is a man who knows he has no choice but to do what is in the best interest of those around him. He isn't angry or spiteful. He's protecting someone he loves more than he can ever express. Her heart softens immensely. "This is real for you, isn't it?"

"Course it fucking is!"

"No, I mean this isn't a game to you."

"I risk my life, my standing with the club that saved me life, every goddamn day, so I can be with him." Passion overwhelms Chibs' voice and nearly brings tears to his eyes. "This has never been a joke and cannot be where yer concerned. This is a risk right here, admitting this to you."

"Then that's what I want," Schuyler speaks plainly. Her voice is unwavering, feeling an honest admittance is the least she owes to those who brought her into their sanctuary. "I don't want to be another booty call. I don't want to be a point on your score boards."

She sits up straighter and forms a steeple with her hands which turns into a blade she gestures with while lecturing. "You think you're risking everything bringing me here? Sure, the club might kill the two of you, but it will be quick. Lack intimacy. But me?" Schuyler's eyes grow dark with the weight of her past and the uncertainty of her future weighing her down. "I'm already hanging on by a teether. If any one finds out, they will burn me as a witch in town square. My father's reputation will be tarnished because he patched me. My charter will be cut off from the network for producing me. Progress will never be made. My life's work will go up in the flames with me."

Tig's voice is raw when he asks, "Why risk coming here?"

"Why'd you risk bringing me here, to chase something you can't even put a name to?"

Tig's coping mechanism is humor. He finds the quickest way to make himself comfortable is to make others uncomfortable. "I don't know what the hell the old man is doing, but I'm trying to bring home a new mommy for me and my daddy to play with."

Schuyler responds nonchalantly. "You're so unhinged. It's unbelievable this whole operation hasn't come crashing down. I'd bet my bike this game of Russian Roulette was your brilliant plot."

"Can't say I've never used my powers for good."

"And how the fuck did you end up here exactly?" Schuyler rounds on Chibs. "Him, I get. I've seen him look sideways at tailpipes when they warm up. Shouldn't you be predisposed to a different sort of inclination?"

This is the unfavorable response Chibs had expected to hear when she commented on his rosary. He finds himself laughing at the ridiculousness of the woman's claim as opposed to being outright offended by it. "The cross donna burn my skin. I say my Hail Mary's when I have to repent. This man has never given me a reason to feel guilty and I feel guilt over everything. I've done plenty to be nervous for, but the interpretations of mortals donna frighten me, and our relationship is my reprieve."

Chibs walks forward and briefly squeezes Tig's shoulder. The contact reassures one man as much as the other. Chibs renews his tactic, unwilling to let Schuyler run the discussion off its tracks. He knows someone has to be the adult and he always manages to be the one to take up the role. Someone has to speak openly for the discussion to progress. "There's no use in pretending, is there? Yer all Tig can talk about. And he's spoken highly. Do ye really plan to sit there and say you werena coming onto me at the Patch-Over?"

Schuyler leans back in her chair and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "What are we, twelve? You knew where I went. I knew what you were up to down that seedy ass hallway. But you didn't pull away from me."

"I was hesitant to be sure but wouldna pulled away. Why did you?"

Her eyebrows rise on her forehead. Her thoughts are more than heedful. "How was I to know I wasn't a residual hormonal response?"

Tig sneers and Schuyler catches a glimpse of how vile he can truly be when provoked. "How'd you know he wasn't trying to get his dick wet? Gonna leave you purple, passed out on the floor?"

"Tig."

"Is that why you pulled away from me in the garage, killer?" Schuyler challenges. "The big bad wolf is scared of getting his heart stepped on. You can't hide behind that flash forever, Sergeant."

"Hey." Chibs inhabits the role of the protector. "It's not your place to thrust that on him."

Chibs is stunned by Tig's response. "I wanted her to speak her mind. Prove she could hang." Schuyler recalls one of their past conversations. "What's the point in bringing her in if we're not gonna keep busting each other balls?"

"Is ball-busting the extent of what you have in mind?" Tig loosens his sneer.

"He's right, you know. As much as I hate to inflate his ego. I was being overly cautious with you. Couldn't take a chance on anyone around us waking up. On it being a one-time thing. No warning or caution." Chibs' arms go limp at his sides. Disappointment bubbles to the surface over his being able to point blame towards others as easily as he can to himself for Schuyler's innate need to be alert. "But, I wouldn't be here if I gave credible thought to either of you being reckless or uncontrollable or stupid. I think a hell of a lot higher of both of you."

Tig smiles slyly, flattered by her admission. "You too, though I'm probably granting more credit than is due. There's a difference between some of the assholes who hang around the club and those who are patched into it. Different rules apply. Hell, I know that better than most. And the club usually gets it right."

Schuyler frowns and gestures at the door she entered through. "Though tonight didn't present an optimal example."

Tig cracks up. "Boy, can I time 'em or what? Nothing like a show of force to get everybody keyed up!"

Schuyler shuts him down. "See there. That's what I'm getting at. You think I don't know what Clay or Bobby would do if they knew I was here." She acknowledges Chibs. "This right here. It's not just screwing around with you." She points to Tig. "Not just screwing around with you. Chicks don't Patch to avoid affairs, right? Keeps from mudding the waters."

They nod to her point independent of each other. "To add on top of it what I assume it is you two do. What with Tig hiding his bike the way he does. How many nights are you here? Couple in a week, but never two in a row. Not once in so many years. I know what they would do to you. The hate some of them could hold, for you, because of this."

Schuyler's words remind each of them of the threat looming above their heads beyond the safe borders of the house. "Makes what I did to the carnie look like he got off easy. Me, I'm young and supposed to be making stupid mistakes like this. But what the hell is your excuse for bringing me here?"

A look is shared between them where they communicate silently. Tig tries to alleviate the tension. "You can show me your ink and we'll settle this without having to take it any further. What's say you, Chibby?"

Chibs manages a small chuckle. He steps away from the table and doesn't look at the woman when he responds. "She's rather fit, isn't she?"

"I've never considered myself a good enough lay to die for." Schuyler's hands sink to her lap. "Or to endanger what's already set up here."

Chibs settles atop his coffee table. Sitting lower than those at the dining table, his form is shrouded in enough light to cover everything except his face and hands, Chibs' command for recognition is persistent. "I'd never risk Tigger. May not act it, but we're adults – on occasion – and we came to the decision together. We're not interested in a mistress."

"Objection. I'm interested in a mistress – or three."

Chibs ignores him. "Tig came to me asking for this years ago. I told 'em I'd agree to it if we did it together. And I had to know, whoever it was, I could trust the other person with him."

Chibs's concern for the man, whom he is bodily guarding with his proximity and honesty, is humbling. Schuyler feels herself privileged to be witness to it knowing with certainty she is the only other person who has. However, she has yet to be convinced she can trust the other man at face value, and lets it be known. "What's your excuse? Tigger."

Tig has never been one to care much for how others refer to him. He responds to insults at the same rate he responds to his birth name. Hearing Schuyler use the name he had been gifted however, has a certain ring to it. The syllables sound more weighted when they are spoken by her. The name resonates throughout his body to below his waistline and, for a split second, he is able to drop his act.

"What'd you call it? Being pre-disposed." He looks to Chibs who wills him to be honest. "I share a lot of things in common with this guy. But this one's on me. I've got this…need…inside. And you're right, I don't got a word to call it" .There's an intensity in his eyes. "What I do know is I can't stand how many hours in the day I spend thinking about you. I'm guessing there's one way it's going to stop."

Tig averts his gaze, opting to look at the ground. He managed to say more than he believed himself capable. Especially to someone who, for all intents and purposes, he should regard as a near stranger. Yet, every word he spoke had been true. And he's relieved he said them after having held the words in for so long.

Chibs focuses on lowering his heart rate. He regrets having raised his voice towards the woman whom he has been quietly admiring from afar. While it is true this began as Tig's endeavor, and Chibs could have never predicted he would be placed into such a predicament, stranger things can and have happened to him in his lifetime.

Like meeting Tig, for instance.

After having met Tig, in a way he never should have, in a time he most definitely needed to, how could he ignore the sign of meeting Schuyler in the way he had, at the time he did. He would be blatantly lying if he tried to say he had no personal investment in the brazen woman who came to his house despite her having had every reason to ignore the invitation. Neither his upbringings nor the risks associated with the actions he is taking can prevent him from, almost desperately, wanting to pursue this new path. Albeit Chibs is wise enough to understand, and not without his own influence, he will be responsible for leading Schuyler onto the same boat he and Tig have been paddling in for years – a long ways from shore, without an oar between them.

"Look." Schuyler begins anew. A bit calmer, more rational. "I know my transfer hasn't been easy. I also know we've been circling each other for weeks. And, I've suspected something has been going on here."

At this declaration, the couple looks to her with identical expressions of horror. "I promise, no one else could possibly guess this was it." Schuyler's tone resolves to a soothing, melodic rhythm. "I'm more in tune to notice these things." She references her personal experiences. "And the energy we've been putting off, it's the same when we're alone together."

"Sounds like free-loving hippie-dip-pie shit if you ask me." Tig dismisses her claim.

"You should meet my mother," Schuyler sighs willfully. "She'd be so proud."

Chibs' makes his position clear. "No one. Can ever. Know. For this to work, we need trust, and the way to earn our loyalty is by keeping what happens in this house between us."

Schuyler pops each of her wrists then crosses her arms on the table. "Seems an easy rule to follow. I don't want anyone to know my business."

The established couple reciprocate a glance. Regardless that Schuyler had meant for her statement to be a joke, she brings up an excellent concern.

"There are more," Chibs admits.

"Many more." Tig's comment sounds spiteful.

The men have had rules between them for as long as they have been an item. Once established they never sought to revisit them. However, the same concerns that made the men formulate their rules in the first place are being reintroduced as a new party is being brought into the rink. The three will have to decide collectively if they can operate under the same pretenses the men have for many years or if new precautions need to be weighed and implemented.

"As there should be. I'm willing to hear your conditions. But you have to be open to hearing my opinion on any I don't vibe with."

Unable to remaining seated for long, Chibs stands to reenter the conversation in a less defensive manner. He places a hand on the back of Tig's chair and proceeds to conduct the conversation much like how one would conduct a board meeting. "Alright. First thin' ye've got ta understand. We're navigating an open relationship."

"I gathered as much."

Tig clarifies his statement. "Club's gotta see us hooking up."

"Donna care who it is or how many. Long as there's no fighting between us or sharing a score. Stake your claim. If two of us want a girl and canna agree, walk away."

Tig looks perplexed. "Hold up. Do you mean to tell me you're a switch-hitter?"

Schuyler cracks up with laughter. "I think the question you mean to ask is: Do I get laid, bare minimum, twice as much as you do. And the answer is, yes, by the by. You missed all sorts of fun things skipping out on the Patch-Over."

"Can we reassess that last rule?" Tig looks about as innocent as a venomous snake. "I think I'm suddenly open to sharing."

Chibs gives an unamused look, but Schuyler beats him to the punch. She invents a reason to keep the rule instated. One more enticing to Tig than the mere proposal of a threesome. "I agree with the rule. No inviting outsiders. I've got a possessive streak in me, you know. I don't see me trying to share my toys panning out too well."

"The rule stands." Chibs' eyebrows have a mind of their own when he points them at Tig in warning. "It furthers my next point; you canna bring them home. Home means your place, it means Tig's place, it means here. If we're home, we're focusing on each other."

"That's very sweet," Schuyler teases the older gentleman, "and reasonable."

"It's practical." Chibs nearly plays off his comment like his commitment to the rule is not rooted in pure sentiment, but Schuyler sees through him.

Tig sets up the stakes for the next rule. "If I don't like the person you're about to hook up with, I can veto it. Any reason. Same goes for you. No argument. Just tap me on the shoulder, say 'veto', and I'll walk away. Saves' whole lot a trouble."

"What, in the middle of a strip club after you've already been grinding on a worker. Won't that look suspicious?" Schuyler brings up her concerns. "How often have you played that card?"

"Never." Tig sounds like he's bragging. Proud, it would seem, of always getting his conquests.

"We know who to avoid to keep from riling each other up. But you can use it," Chibs assures her, and Schuyler finds herself wanting to believe his word. "Something else you're gonna do. Use condoms, when yer not with us." The second part of the sentence sounds like the beginning of a suggestion.

Schuyler's eyes flit between them. "Are you requiring we use condoms?" She gives Chibs a once over while he is standing. Chibs' ability to lead the conversation coupled with his posture do not go unnoticed by Schuyler. She decides outright he most likely conducts himself in a similar fashion while in the bedroom.

She is equally admirable of Tig's actions. The way he subtly leans his back against the hand on his chair. His hand dropped to his side at one point to not-so-subtlety brush against Chibs' leg and signal he had something to say. He turns his head in recognition each time the man behind him speaks and Tig naturally complies with Chibs who leads the discussion. Schuyler has no doubt this, too, is Tig's role behind closed doors. A stark contrast to how he is determined to conduct himself within club ranks.

Chibs sighs heavily. He parts his lips in contemplation. "We can discuss it, when the time comes."

Schuyler hums pleasantly. She sounds like she's purring. "Nothing seems unreasonable. My freedom as a woman doesn't feel threatened, yet."

"Good." Chibs moves on. "Canna sleep with someone more than twice. Keeps from forming attachments. It's cheating otherwise."

"Twice seems like a lot."

Tig asks, "What if someone's a good lay?"

"Was that your addition to the playbook?"

"The one argument I've won in seven years!"

Schuyler has never considered herself a jealous person. Then again, she's never been in a situation even approaching the one she's entering into. She's never held a relationship with anyone outside her chosen family ties. She's yet to harbor feelings of infatuation until quite recently. With each new rule laid before her it becomes increasingly more apparent this "open relationship" is more closed than the men realize, and it is far more than she has ever attempted to take on. With one person – one partner – much less with two simultaneously.

And yet. She keeps nodding her head. Willing to hear the terms and longing to progress the discussion seemingly willed by a force inside her she has never known to exist and absolutely never wanted to indulge. "I can live with the two-limit rule. Tell me, what happens if someone breaks a rule?"

Tig's eyes glisten darkly. "There's a punishment."

"Easy lovely." Chibs' slip of the tongue reveals how vulnerable he's allowing himself to feel in Schuyler's presence. Schuyler's heart skips a beat when she registers the endearment. "We will agree upon reparations equal to the transgression."

Schuyler wants to test her limits. "What if I don't agree to the punishment chosen for me?"

"Do you plan on breaking our rules?" Chibs extends the same tone of voice he had used to reel Tig in to Schuyler. "Majority rules, I fear." He is settling into the role he feels most comfortable portraying.

"I'm strangely comfortable with it." Schuyler reclines in her seat. She brings her foot up to the seat and rests her arm atop her knee for balance. "I'm impressed you boys came up with so many sensible rules. Are you ready to hear my amendments?"

Tig makes a mocking joke. "I think you should start on probation. See if you last the week before you get to make demands."

"Shit's not going to fly." Schuyler shows how forceful she can be. "I just got off probation with this charter. Before that, I was on probation for six damn weeks with SANDINO after I had run the Mexican border for two years. I heard what you had for me. Now you're going to return the fucking favor, or I'll walk away right now and pretend this shit didn't just happen."

Chibs pats Tig on the back and speaks. "You have suggestions I take it?"

"Just one. It's going to sound dumb, but I don't want either of you fucking women older than me."

"Shit, done." Schuyler is serious, but Tig takes her request as a joke since he already prefers women of a younger age bracket.

"Why's that?" Chibs asks in equal measures of curtesy and curiosity.

Schuyler rolls her eyes. "Obviously, there's a gap in the amount of experience that has been obtained in this room. Let's not add to it."

Chibs nods thoughtfully. "Good. But I want you to do the same. No one older than me."

Tig butts in. "She's not going to find anyone older than you who can still get it up."

"You better hope I can get it up." Chibs flicks Tig's ribs through the wooden chair posts. Tig has no other choice but to retaliate. He rises from his chair and advances, pushing Chibs across the room.

Schuyler observes fondly as they quarrel for a time. Tig works his shoulder against Chibs' abdomen to force the eldest into a corner. Chibs lifts him mere millimeters; enough to turn him and have him bounce off the front door. The two are fairly matched, but Schuyler knows their struggling is an innocent way to blow off steam and a less messy alternative. "You're gonna be shit out of luck."

"Easy," Schuyler speaks soothingly to regain their attention. The entertaining display doesn't prevent Chibs' comments from going unnoticed by the woman. "Don't break the machinery before I get a chance to test drive it. I take it you two don't share my same interest in men?"

"Too dangerous," Tig murmurs, though he nods towards Chibs insinuating it's more eldest's precaution. He lands heavily back in his seat. "Image is too important."

"'s not my cuppa," Chibs replies, lazily. He also chooses to sit, once again on the coffee table, preferring to remain mobile. Always changing his location. "Guess it would infringe on yer freedoms if we asked you to avoid men?"

"You got a jealous streak in you? What are we, planning on going steady? Not like it'll mean much, anything I do with them. It's the same thing we're doing here, right?" Schuyler makes a venture to gain clarity into what either man truly expects to gain from future interactions. When she doesn't receive a verbal answer, she lets the subject drop knowing it would be better to let things process in their own time. "I'm not going to ask you to avoid blondes. You don't get to ask me to limit my sexuality."

"Aye. That'd a be alright."

"Speaking of vetoing." Schuyler feels like she has been in church since she arrived. "What do we do when a vote is brought to the table? How do we go about dealing with club shit with –," another vague hand gesture, "— whatever it is you want to call this?"

Chibs huffs a sigh. "Tig has to vote with Clay. Jus' have to accept he's going to vote against me. We're not gonna undercut the club with back-room bargains."

Tig's pout is playful. "And I'm banished to the couch for a month after every damn vote."

"A week at most." Chibs responds charismatically. "And you do plenty to deserve it."

"Do not."

"Do too." Schuyler finds herself giggling at their banter.

Chibs is pleased with himself for being able to amuse her, but a matter of significant importance (one he had been putting off) prevents him from showing it. "There's one more thing I can think of. You heard me say we use condoms, but I have to ask ye. When was the last time you found yerself tested?"

The doctor in Schuyler doesn't shy away from the unattractive question. She's impressed Chibs thought far enough in advance to ask. "About a year ago. I'm pretty regular, all in all. I'm hoping you two can say the same."

They nod in tandem. "Chibby makes sure of it or else I'd forget. Another one of his rules."

"It's to ensure our health." Chibs clears his throat and traces his beard with his hand. "And I know this bit is rather personal, but I have to know before I can let anything more continue. Do you use any sort of preventive?" Chibs asks, nearly through clenched teeth. The muscles in his cheeks contest with the effort to fuel his concentration.

Schuyler looks the eldest dead in the eye. Her face doesn't change, but her voice is pure sin, dragged down by the weight of her knowledge of the truth behind the question. "Are you so excited you got to ask me that question?"

Tig's breath catches when the most seductive smirk he has ever seen takes up real estate on Schuyler's face.

She holds up her left arm dramatically and gives it a slap. "Implant. Literally incapable of leaving the house without it. I've got a few more weeks on it. I can have a new one placed when I get my annual."

Chibs is satisfied. He nods, acknowledging she is agreeing to his as well as Tig's terms.

And with her agreement comes a new sort of tension in the room.

The tension is radiating from Tig. Though it is equally as important for her to respect Tig's boundaries, the man himself is not in a stable enough head space to be abiding by any sort of limitations. Tig, for his part, has just realized he has received the green light to pursue Schuyler without the accompaniment of his overbearing and frustratingly cautious partner.

If a contract had been sat in front of her, Schuyler would have gladly signed it with a lipstick imprint. However, her verbal acknowledgement to abide by the existing couple's multitude of rules would have to suffice. More so than being bound by the laws of man, she will be bound by the laws of the outlaw. Her word under the spotlight of the cramped dining table is as good as a blood oath binding her to those in the room. Her first true test of commitment would come when she stepped foot out the door and encountered the first person she stumbled across. She will make her loyalty known in due time. The two men have to extend their trust first and allow her the space to prove herself.

Schuyler rises, walking quickly towards the door she entered from. "I'll see you boys around."

Tig shakes himself from his haze and calls after her retreating form. "Where the hell are you going?"

"I've loitered around here long enough, and I have a busy day ahead of me."

Tig hastily attempts to find a reason for Schuyler to stay. "At least, I mean, the least you could do is stay for a drink."

"We all know a drink is the furthest thing from your mind." She stops with her hand on the door knob and winks into the dining room. "Besides. For this to continue, things need to progress organically."

Schuyler disappears into the night. The last either man sees or hears from her for several days is the sound of her motorcycle as it leaves the carport.

By the time Chibs gets his bearings and stands from the coffee table to face Tig, Tig himself has jumped to his feet. A hard-on pressing against his constricting jeans. "Holy Mother of Christ."

The two do not make it to the couch, much less the bedroom across the house. Chibs grabs Tig's hips in the same moment Tig crushes their lips together and he forces Tig into the kitchen against the nearest countertop.

**Author's Notes:**

Sorry if I overhyped this chapter by naming it the 'Hook-Up'. I use the term loosely in my notes a ton and it has become a private joke. However, the dam has finally broken between the primary romance of this series and these three amazing characters. I love them and their (future) relationship dearly and I'm so happy to finally be sharing this chapter with others. Again, you will be rewarded for sticking with this series in chapter 10.

For those who like to read teasers, here is something to get you excited for the next instalment:

Schuyler's secret scheme is revealed and she injects SAMCRO into civilian life for a single day. Surely, this will not have any dire consequences for any or all characters involved. We learn more about Schuyler's past, her relationships develop with Juice and Half-Sack (For those who have been waiting for more of Schuyler and Juice's friendship to develop, get ready), and Schuyler and Tig hook-up - for real this time


End file.
